THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 


From  the  collection  of 
Julius  Doerner,  Chicago 
Purchased,  1918. 

8Z3 

0)55>  W 

V.  12 


THE  WORKS 


OF 

Charles  Dickens 

VOLUME  TWELVE 

WITH  TWENTY-SEVEN  ILLUSTRATIONS 


DOMBEY  ANDSON 

(PART  TWO)  - 


MISCELLANEOUS 


New  York 

PETER  PENELON  COLI.IER,  PUBLISHER 


■p55'W 

LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

PART  TWO. 

Took  Uncle  Sol’s  snuff-colored  lappels,  one  in  each  hand  ; kissed 
him  on  the  cheek,  etc — paj^e  9. 

“ Take  advice  from  plain  old  Joe,  and  never  educate  that  sort  of 
people,  sir”— page  2(5. 

Mr.  Dombey  again  addressed  himself  to  Edith— page  40. 

“You  dog,”  said  Mr.  Carker,  through  his  set  jaws,  “I’ll  strangle 
you!  ” — page  47.  • 

“ What  do  you  want  with  Captain  Cuttle,  I should  wish  to  know?  ” 
said  Mrs.  Macstinger— page  73. 

Rob  retreated  before  him  into  another  corner:  holding  out  the 
keys  and  packet— page  9.5. 

“ Go  and  meet  her!  ” — page  123. 

“A  child!  ” said  Edith,  looking  at  her.  “When  was  I a child  ? 
Vv^hat  childhood  did  you  ever  leave  to  me?  ’’—page  135. 

The  couple  turned  into  the  dining-room— page  165. 

In  a firm,  free  hand  the  bride  subscribes  her  name  in  the  register 
—page  181 

“She’s  come  back  harder  than  she  went! ’’cried  the  mother, 
looking  up  in  her  face,  and  still  holding  to  her  knees— 
page  221. 

“Do  you  know  that  there  is  some  one  here?”  she  returned, 
now  looking  at  him  steadily— page  251. 

Withers,  meeting  him  on  the  stairs,  stood  amazed  at  the  beauty 
of  his  teeth,  and  at  his  brilliant  smile— jiage  259. 

Ran  sniggering  off  to  get  change,  and  tossed  it  away  with  a pie- 
man-page 273. 

Mr.  Toots  replies  by  launching  wildly  out  into  Miss  Dombey’s 
praises — page  311. 

“Do  you  call  it  managing  this  establishment,  madam  ?”  said 
Mr.  Dombey— page  341. 

“ Miss  Dombey,”  returned  Mr.  Toots,  “ if  you’ll  only  name  one, 
you’ll — you’ll  give  me  an  appetite  to  which  "l  have  long 
been  a stranger  ’’--page  347.  ♦ 

Florence  made  a motion  with  her  hand  towards  him,  reeled,  and 
fell  upon  the  floor — page  389. 

When  he  had  tilled  his  pipe  in  an  absolute  reverie  of  satisfaction, 
Florence  lighted  it  for  him — page  405. 

It  a,ppears  that  he  met  everybody  concerned  in  the  late  transac- 
tion, everywhere — page  439. 

He  saw  the  face  change  from  its  vindictive  passion  to  a faint 
sickness  and  terror — page  491. 

After  this,  he  smoked  four  pipes  succe.ssively  in  the  little  parlour 
by  himself— page  501. 

“Wy,  it’s'  mean That’s  where  it  is.  It’s  mean!’.’ — 

page  515. 

“ Joe  had  been  deceived,  sir,  taken  in,  hoodwinked,  blindfolded” 
— page  525. 

“Yes,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  it  is,”  replies  cook,  advancing.  “And  wha,t 
then,  pray,?” — page  541. 

“No,  no  !”  cried  Florence,  shrinking  back  as  she  rose  up,  and 
putting  out  her  hands  to  keep  her  off.  “ Mamma  ! ” — 
page  ,575. 

Captain  Cuttle  gives  them  the  lovely  peg — page  581. 


800457 


(3) 


' ^ 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


5 


CHAPTER  XIX„ 

Walter  goes  away. 

The  Wooden  Midshipman  at  the  Instrument-maker's 
door,  like  the  hard-hearted  little  midshipman  he  was,  re- 
mained supremely  indifferent  to  Walter's  going  away^ 
even  when  the  very  last  day  of  his  sojourn  in  the  back- 
parlour  was  on  the  decline.  With  his  quadrant  at  his 
round  black  knob  of  an  eye,  and  his  figure  in  its  old  at- 
titude of  indomitable  alacrity,  the  midshipman  displayed 
his  elfin  small-clothes  to  the  best  advantage,  and,  ab- 
sorbed in  scientific  pursuits,  had  no  sympathy  with 
worldly  concerns.  He  was  so  far  the  creature  of  cir- 
cumstances, that  a dry  day  covered  him  with  dust,  and 
a misty  day  peppered  him  with  little  bits  of  soot,  and  a 
wet  day  brightened  up  his  tarnished  uniform  for  a mo- 
ment, and  a very  hot  day  blistered  him  ; but  otherwise 
he  was  a callous,  obdurate,  conceited  midshipman,  in- 
tent on  his  own  discoveries,  and  caring  as  little  for  w^hat 
went  on  about  him,  terrestrially,  as  Archimedes  at  the 
taking  of  Syracuse. 

Such  a midshipman  he  seemed  to  be,  at  least,  in  the 
then  position  of  domestic  affairs.'  Walter  eyed  him 
kindly  many  a time  in  passing  in  and  out ; and  poor 
old  Sol,  when  Walter  was  not  there,  would  come  and 
lean  against  the  door-post,  resting  his  weary  wig  as  near 
the  shoe-buckles  of  the  guardian  genius  of  his  trade  and 
shop  as  he  could.  But  no  fierce  idol  with  a month  from 
ear  to  ear,  and  a murderous  visage  made  of  parrot's 
feathers,  was  ever  more  indifferent  to  the  appeals  of  its 
savage  votaries,  than  was  the  midshipman  to  these 
marks  of  attachment. 

Walter's  heart  felt  heavy  as  he  looked  round  his  old 
bedroom,  up  among  the  parapets  and  chimney-pots,  and 
thought  that  one  more  night  already  darkening  would 
close  his  acquaintance  with  it,  perhaps  for  ever.  Dis- 
mantled of  his  little  stock  of  books  and  pictures,  it 
looked  coldly  and  reproachfully  on  him  for  his  desertion, 
and  had  already  a foreshadow  upon  it  of  its  coming 
strangeness.  A few  hours  more,"  thought  Walter, 
“ and  no  dream  I ever  had  here  when  I was  a schoolboy 
will  be  so  little  mine  as  this  old  room.  The  dream  may 
come  back  in  my  sleep,  and  I may  return  wa^^^mg  to 
this  place,  it  may  be  : but  the  dream  at  least  will  serve 
no  other  master,  and  the  room  may  have  a sco’*e,  and 
every  one  of  them  may  change,  neglect,  misuse  H." 

But  his  uncle  was  not  to  be  left  alone  in  the  little  b‘»ck- 
parlour,  where  he  was  then  sitting  by  himself  ; for  Cap- 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tain  Cuttle,  considerate  in  his  roughness,  stayed  away 
against  his  will,  purposely  that  they  should  have  some 
talk  together  unobserved  : so  Walter,  newly  returned 
home  from  his  last  day’s  bustle,  descended  briskly  to 
bear  him  company. 

“ Uncle,”  he  said  gaily,  laying  his  hand  upon  the  old 
man’s  shoulder,  what  shall  I send  you  home  from  Bar- 
bados?” 

“Hope,  my  dear  Wally.  Hope  that  we  shall  meet 
again,  on  this  side  of  the  grave.  Send  me  as  much  of 
that  as  you  can.” 

“ So  I will,  uncle  ; I have  enough  and  to  spare,  and 
I’ll  not  be  chary  of  it  I And  as  to  lively  turtles,  and  limes 
for  Captain  Cuttle’s  punch,  and  preserves  for  you  on 
Sundays,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  why  I’ll  send  you 
shiploads,  uncle  : when  I’m  rich  enough.” 

Old  Sol  wiped  his  spectacles,  and  faintly  smiled. 

“ That  right,  uncle  ! ” cried  Walter,  merrily,  and 
clapping  him  half  a dozen  times  more  upon  the  shoulder. 

You  cheer  up  me  i I’ll  cheer  up  you  ! We’ll  be  as  gay 
as  larks  to-morrow  morning,  uncle,  and  we’ll  fly  as  high  ! 
A 02  to  my  anticipations,  they  are  singing  out  of  sight 
now.  ” 

“Wally,  my  dear  boy,”  returned  the  old  man,  “I’l/ 
do  my  best.  I’ll  do  my  best. 

“ And  your  best,  uncle,”  said  Walter,  with  his  pleasant 
laugh,  “ is  the  best  that  I know.  You’ll  not  forget  what 
you’re  to  send  me,  uncle  ? ” 

“No,  Wally,  no,”  replied  the  old  man  ; “ everything 
I hear  about  Miss  Dombey,  now  that  she  is  left  alone, 
poor  lamb.  I’ll  write.  I fear  it  won’t  be  much  though, 
Wally.” 

“ Why,  I’ll  tell  you  what,  uncle,”  said  Walter,  after  a 
moment’s  hesitation,  “ I have  just  been  up  there.” 

“Ay,  ay,  ay?”  murmured  the  old  man,  raising  his 
eyebrows,  and  his  spectacles  with  them. 

“Not  to  see  said  Walter,  “ though  I could  have 
seen  her,  I dare  say,  if  I had  asked,  Mr.  Dombey  being 
out  of  town  ; but  to  say  a parting  word  to  Susan.  1 
thought  I might  venture  to  do  that,  you  know,  under  the 
circumstances,  and  remembering  when  I saw  Miss  Dom- 
bey last.” 

“Yes,  my  boy,  yes,”  replied  his  uncle,  rousing  him' 
self  from  a temporary  abstraction. 

“ So  I saw  her,”  pursued  Walter.  “ Susan,  I mean  : 
and  I told  her  I was  ofl  and  away  to-morrow.  And  I 
said,  uncle,  that  you  had  always  had  an  interest  in  Miss 
Dombey  since  that  night  when  she  was  here,  and  always 
wished  her  well  and  happy,  and  always  would  be  proud 
and  glad  to  serve  her  in  the  least ; I thought  I might 
say  that,  you  know,  under  the  circumstances.  Don’t 
^ou  think  so?” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


1 


“ Yes,  my  boy,  yes,’’  replied  his  uncle,  in  the  tone  as 
before. 

‘'And  I added,”  pursued  Walter,  " that  if  she— Susan 
I mean — could  ever  let  you  know,  either  through  herself 
or  Mrs.  Richards,  or  anybody  else  who  might  be  coming 
this  way,  that  Miss  Dombey  was  well  and  happy,  you 
would  take  it  very  kindly,  and  would  write  so  much  to 
me,  and  I should  take  it  very  kindly  too.  There  ! Upon 
my  word,  uncle,”  said  Walter,  I scarcely  slept  all  last 
night  through  thinking  of  doing  this;  and  could  not  make 
up  my  mind  when  I was  out,  whether  to  do  it  or  not ; and 
yet  I am  sure  it  is  the  true  feeling  of  my  heart,  and  I 
should  have  been  quite  miserable  afterwards  if  I had 
not  relieved  it.” 

His  honest  voice  and  manner  corroborated  what  he 
said,  and  quite  established  its  ingenuousness. 

"So,  if  you  ever  see  her,  uncle,”  said  Walter,  "I 
mean  Miss  Dombey  now — and  perhaps  you  may,  who 
knows  ! — tell  her  how  much  I felt  for  her  ; how  much  I 
used  to  think  of  her  when  I was  here  ; how  I spoke  of 
her,  with  the  tears  in  my  eyes,  uncle,  on  this  last  night 
before  I went  away.  Tell  her  that  I said  I never  could 
forget  her  gentle  manner,  or  her  beautiful  face,  or  her 
sweet  kind  disposition  that  was  better  than  all.  And  as 
I didn’t  take  them  from  a woman’s  feet,  or  a young  lady’s  ; 
only  a little  innocent  child’s,”  said  Walter  : "tell  her  if 
you  don’t  mind,  uncle,  th«t  I kept  those  shoes — she’ll 
remember  how  often  they  fell  oif,  that  night — and  took 
them  away  with  me  as  a remembrance  ! ” 

They  were  at  that  very  moment  going  out  at  the  door 
in  one  of  Walter’s  trunks.  A porter  carrying  off  his 
baggage  on  a truck  for  shipment  at  the  docks  on  board 
the  Son  and  Heir,  hud  got  possession  of  them  : and 
wheeled  them  away  under  the  very  eye  of  the  insensible 
Midshipman  before  their  owner  had  well  finished  speak- 
ing. 

But  that  ancient  mariner  might  have  been  excused 
his  insensibility  to  the  treasure  as  it  rolled  away.  For, 
under  his  eye  at  the  same  moment,  accurately  within 
his  range  of  observation,  coming  full  into  the  sphere  of 
his  ‘startled  and  intensely  wide-awake  look-out,  were 
Florence  and  Susan  Nipper  ; Florence  looking  up  into 
his  face  half  timidly,  and  receiving  the  whole  shock  of 
his  wooden  ogling  ! 

More  than  this,  they  passed  into  the  shop,  and  passed 
in  at  the  parlour  door,  before  they  were  observed  by 
anybody  but  the  Midshipman.  And  Walter,  having  his 
back  to  the  door,  would  have  known  nothing  of  their 
apparition  even  then,  but  for  seeing  his  uncle  spring  out 
of  his  own  chair,  and  nearly  tumble  over  another, 

"Why  uncle!”  exclaimed  Walter.  "What’s  the 
matter?  ” 


8 WOEKS  OF  CHAELES  DICKENS. 

Old  Solomon  replied,  Miss  Dombey  ! 

/‘Is  it  possible  cried  Walter,  looking  round  and 
starting  up  in  bis  turn.  “ Here  ! ’’ 

Why  it  was  so  possible  and  so  actual,  tbat,  while  the 
words  were  on  his  lips,  Florence  hurried  past  him  ; took 
Uncle  Sobs  snuff-coloured  lappels,  one  in  each  hand  ; 
kissed  him  on  the  cheek  ; and  turning,  ga7e  her  hand 
to  Walter  with  a simple  truth  and  earnestness  that  was 
her  own,  and  no  one  else’s  in  the  world  ! 

“Going  away,  Walter  ! ” said  Florence. 

“ Yes,  Miss  Dombey,”  he  replied,  but  not  so  hope- 
fully as  he  endeavoured  : “ I have  a voyage  before  me.” 

“And  your  uncle,”  said  Florence,  looking  back  at 
Solomon.  ‘ ‘ He  is  sorry  you  are  going,  I am  sure.  Ah  I 
I see  he  is  ! Dear  Walter,  I am  very  sorry  too.” 

“ Goodness  knows,”  exclaimed  Miss  Nipper,  “there’s 
a many  we  could  spare  instead,  if  numbers  is  a object, 
Mrs.  Pipchin  as  a overseer  would  come  cheap  at  her 
weight  in  gold,  and  if  a knowledge  of  black  slavery 
should  be  required,  them  Blimbers  is  the  very  people  for 
the  sitiwation.” 

With  that  Miss  Nipper  untied  her  bonnet  strings,  and 
after  looking  vacantly  for  some  moments  into  a little 
black  tea-pot  that  was  set  forth  with  the  usual  homely 
service,  on  the  table,  shook  her  head  and  a tin  canister, 
and  began  unasked  to  make  the  tea. 

In  the  meantime  Florence  had  turned  again  to  the 
Instrument-maker,  who  was  as  full  of  admiration  as 
surprise.  “ So  grown  I ” said  old  Sol.  “So  improved  ! 
And  yet  not  altered  I Just  the  same  ! ” 

“ Indeed  ! ” said  Florence. 

“Ye — yes,”  returned  old  Sol,  rubbing  his  hands 
slowly,  and  considering  the  matter* half  aloud,  as  some- 
thing pensive  in  the  bright  eyes  looking  at  him  arrested 
his  attention.  “Yes,  that  expression  was  in  the  younger 
face  too  ! ” 

“You  remember  me,”  said  Florence  with  a smile, 

and  what  a little  creature  1 was  then  ? ” 

“ My  dear  young  lady,”  returned  the  Instrument- 
maker,  ‘ ‘ how  could  I forget  you,  often  as  I have  thought 
of  you  and  heard  of  you  since  ! At  the  very  moment, 
indeed,  when  you  came  in,  Wally  was  talking  about  you 
to  me,  and  leaving  messages  for  you,  and — ” 

“Was  he?”  said  Florence.  “ Thank  you,  Walter  ! Oh 
thank  you  Walter  I I was  afraid  you  might  be  going 
away  and  hardly  thinking  of  me  ; ” and  again  she  gave 
him  her  little  hand  so  freely  and  so  faithfully  that 
Walter  held  it  for  some  moments  in  his  own,  and  could 
not  bear  to  let  it  go. 

Yet  Walter  did  not  hold  H as  he  might  have  held  it 
once,  nor  did  its  touch  awaken  those  old  day-dreams  of 


TOOK  UNCLE  SOL’S  SNUFF-COLORED  LAPPELS,  ONE  IN  EACH  HAND; 
KISSED  HIM  ON  THE  CHEEK,  ETC. 

— Dombey  and  Son,  Vol.  Twelve,  page  9 


10 


WOEKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


his  b©.yhood  that  had  floated  past  him  sometimes  evem 
lately,  and  confused  him  with  their  indistinct  and  broken 
shapes.  The  purity  and  innocence  of  her  endearing 
manner,  and  its  perfect  trustfulness,  and  the  undisguised 
regard  for  him  that  lay  so  deeply  seated  in  her  constant 
eyes,  and  glowed  upon  her  fair  face  through  the  smile  that 
shaded — for  alas  ! it  was  a smile  too  sad  to  brighten — ^it, 
were  not  of  their  romantic  race.  They  brought  back  to 
his  thoughts  the  early  death-bed  he  had  seen  her  tend- 
ing, and  the  love  the  child  had  borne  her  : and  on  the 
wings  of  such  remembrances  she  seemed  to  rise  up,  far 
above  his  idle  fancies,  into  clearer  and  serener  air. 

I — I am  afraid  I must  call  you  Walter’s  uncle,  sir, 
said  Florence  to  the  old  man,  if  you’ll  let  me.” 

My  dear  young  lady,”  cried  old  Sol.  Let  you  ! 
Good  gracious  ! ” 

“ We  always  knew  you  by  that  name,  and  talked  of 
you,”  said  Florence,  glancing  round  and  sighing  gently. 
‘'The  nice  old  parlour  I Just  the  samel  How  well  I 
recollect  it ! ” 

Old  Sol  looked  first  at  her,  then  at  his  nephew,  and 
then  rubbed  his  hands,  and  rubbed  his  spectacles,  and 
said  below  his  breath,  " Ah  ! time,  time,  time  ! ” 

There  was  a short  silence  ; during  which  Susan  Nipper 
skilfully  impounded  two  extra  cups  and  saucers  from  the 
cupboard,  and  awaited  the  drawing  of  the  tea  with  a 
thoughtful  air. 

1 want  to  tell  Walter^s  ^cle,”  said  Florence,  laying 
her  hand  timidly  upon  the  old  man’s  as  it  rested  on  the 
table,  to  bespeak  his  attention,  “ something  that  I am 
anxious  about.  He  is  going  to  be  left  alone,  and  if  he, 
will  allow  me — not  to  take  Walter’s  place,  for  that  I 
couldn’t  do,  but  to  be  his  true  friend  and  help  him  if 
I ever  can  while  Walter  is  away,  I shall  be  very  much 
obliged  to  him  indeed.  Will  you?  May  I,  Walter’s 
uncle  ? ” 

The  Instrument-maker,  without  speaking,  put  her 
hand  to  his  lips,  and  Susan  Nipper,  leaning  back  with 
her  arms  crossed,  in  the  chair  of  presidency  into  which 
she  had  voted  herself,  bit  one  end  of  her  bonnet-strings, 
and  heaved  a gentle  sigh  as  she  looked  up  at  the  sky- 
light. 

"You  will  let  me  come  to  see  you,”  said  Florence, 
" when  I can  ; and  you  will  tell  me  everything  about 
yourself  and  Walter  ; and  you  will  have  no  secrets  from 
Susan  when  she  comes  and  I do  not,  but  will  confide  in 
us,  and  trust  us,  and  rely  upon  us.  And  you’ll  try  to 
let  us  be  a comfort  to  you?  Will  you,  Walter’s  uncle  ?’*’ 

The  sweet  face  looking  into  his,  the  gently  pleading 
eyes,  the  soft  voice,  and  the  light  touch  on  his  arm 
made  the  more  winning  by  a child’s  respect  and  honour 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


11 


foi  his  age,  that  gave  to  all  an  air  of  graceful  doubt  and 
modest  hesitation— these,  and  her  natural  earnestness, 
so  overcame  the  poor  old  Instrument-maker,  that  he  onlj? 
£t,nswered  : 

Wally  I say  a word  for  me,  my  dear.  Fm  very  grate-^ 
fui.’* 

‘‘  No,  Walter,’'  returned  Florence  with  her  quiet  smile. 

Say  nothing  for  him,  if  you  please.  I understand  him 
very  well,  and  we  must  learn  to  talk  together  without 
you,  dear  Walter.” 

The  regretful  tone  in  which  she  said  these  latter 
words  touched  Walter  more  than  all  the  rest. 

‘"Miss  Florence,”  he  replied,  with  an  effort  to  recover 
the  cheerful  manner  he  had  preserved  while  talking 
with  his  uncle,  ‘‘  I know  no  more  than  my  uncle,  what 
to  say  in  acknowledgment  of  such  kindness,  I am  sure. 
But  what  could  I say,  after  all,  if  I had  the  power  of 
talking  for  an  hour,  except  that  it  is  like  you  ? ” 

Susan  Nipper  began  upon  a new  part  of  her  bonnet- 
string, and  nodded  at  the  skylight,  in  approval  of  the 
sentiment  expressed. 

Oh  ! but  Walter,”  said  Florence,  ‘‘there  is  some- 
thing that  I wish  to  say  to  you  before  you  go  away,  and 
you  must  call  me  Florence  if  you  please,  and  not  speak 
like  a stranger.” 

“Like  a stranger!”  returned  Walter.  “No.  I 
couldn’t  speak  so.  I am  sure,  at  least,  I couldn’t  feel 
like  one.” 

“ Ay,  but  that  is  not  enough,  and  is  not  what  I mean. 
For  Walter,”  added  Florence,  bursting  into  tears,  “he 
liked  you  very  much,  and  said  before  he  died  that  he 
v/as  fond  of  you,  and  said  ‘ Remember  Walter  ! ’ and 
if  you’ll  be  a brother  to  me  Walter,  now  that  he  is  gone 
and  1 have  none  on  earth,  I’ll  be  your  sister  all  my  life, 
and  think  of  you  like  one  wherever  we  may  be  ! This 
is  what  I wish  to  say,  dear  Walter,  but  I cannot  say  it 
as  I would,  because  my  heart  is  full.” 

And  in  its  fulness  and  its  sweet  simplicity,  she  held  out 
both  her  hands  to  him.  Walter  taking  them,  stooped 
down  and  touched  the  tearful  face  that  neither  shrunk 
nor  turned  away,  nor  reddened  as  he  did  so,  but  looked 
up  at  him  with  confidence  and  truth.  In  that  one  mo« 
ment  every  shadow  of  doubt  or  agitation  passed  away 
from  Walter’s  soul.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  responded 
to  her  innocent  appeal,  beside  the  dead  child’s  bed  : and, 
in  the  solemn  presence  he  had  seen  there,  pledged  him- 
self to  cherish  and  protect  her  very  image,  in  his  banish- 
ment, with  brotherly  regard  ; to  garner  up  her  simple 
faith,  inviolate ; and  hold  himself  degraded  if  he 
breathed  upon  it  any  thought  that  was  not  in  her  own 
breast  when  she  gave  it  to  him. 


12 


WORKS  OF  CHARLBS  DICKENS. 


Susan  Nipper,  who  had  bitten  both  her  bpnnet-strings 
at  once,  and  imparted  a great  deal  of  private  emotion  to 
the  skylight,  during  this  transaction,  now  changed  the 
subject  by  inquiring  who  took  milk  and  who  took  sugar; 
and  being  enlightened  on  these  points,  poured  out  the 
tea.  They  all  four  gathered  socially  about  the  little 
table,  and  took  tea  under  that  young  lady's  active  super* 
intendence  ; and  the  presence  of  Florence  in  the  bacl^ 
parlour  brightened  the  Tartar  frigate  on  the  wall. 

Half  an  hour  ago,  Walter,  for  his  life,  would  have 
hardly  called  her  by  her  name.  But  he  could  do  so  now 
when  she  entreated  him.  He  could  think  of  her  being 
there,  without  a lurking  misgiving  that  it  would  have 
been  better  if  she  had  not  come.  He  could  calmly  think 
how  beautiful  she  was,  how  full  of  promise,  what  a 
home  some  happy  man  would  find  in  such  a heart  one 
day.  He  could  reflect  upon  his  own  place  in  that  heart, 
with  pride  ; and  with  a brave  determination,  if  not  to 
deserve  it — he  still  thought  that  far  above  him — never 
to  deserve  it  less. 

Some  fairy  influence  must  surely  have  hovered  round 
the  hands  of  Susan  Nipper  when  she  made  the  tea,  en- 
gendering the  tranquil  air  that  reigned  in  the  back  par- 
lour during  its  discussion.  Some  counter-influence 
must  surely  have  hovered  round  the  hands  of  Uncle  Sol's 
chronometer,  and  moved  them  faster  than  the  Tartar 
frigate  ever  went  before  the  wind.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
the  visitors  had  a coach  in  waiting  at  a quiet  corner  not 
far  off  ; and  the  chronometer,  on  being  incidentally  re- 
ferred to,  gave  such  a positive  opinion  that  it  had  been 
waiting  a long  time,  that  it  was  impossible  to  doubt  the 
fact,  especially  when  stated  on  such  unimpeachable  au- 
thority. . If  Uncle  Sol  had  been  going  to  be  hanged  by 
his  own  time,  he  never  would  have  allowed  that  the 
chronometer  was  too  fast,  by  the  least  fraction  of  a 
second. 

Florence  at  parting  recapitulated  to  the  old  man  all 
that  she  had  said  before,  and  bound  him  to  their  com- 
pact. Uncle  Sol  attended  her  lovingly  to  the  legs  of  the 
wooden  Midshipman,  and  there  resigned  her  to  Walter, 
who  was  ready  to  escort  her  and  Susan  Nipper  to  the 
coach. 

Walter,"  said  Florence  by  the  way,  have  been 
afraid  to  ask  before  your  uncle.  Do  you  think  you  will 
be  absent  very  long?  " 

Indeed,"  said  Walter,  don't  know.  I fear  so. 
Mr.  Dombey  signified  as  much,  I thought,  when  he  ap- 
pointed me." 

'^Is  it  a favour,  Walter?"  inquired  Florence,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  and  looking  anxiously  in  his  face. 

The  appointment?"  returned  Walter. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


13 


‘'Yes.” 

Walter  would  have  given  anything  to  have  answered 
in  the  affirmative,  but  his  face  answered  before  his  lips 
could,  and  Florence  was  too  attentive  to  it  not  to  under- 
stand its  reply. 

“ I am  afraid  you  have  scarcely  been  a favourite  with 
papa,”  she  said,  timidly. 

“There  is  no  reason,”  replied  Walter  smiling,  “why 
I should  be.” 

“No  reason,  Walter  !” 

“ There  was  no  reason,”  said  Walter,  understanding 
what  she  meant.  “ There  are  many  people  employed  in 
the  house.  Between  Mr.  Dombey  and  a young  man 
like  me,  there's  a wide  space  of  separation.  If  I do 
my  duty,  I do  what  I ought,  and  do  no  more  than  all  the 
rest.” 

Had  Florence  any  misgiving  of  which  she  was  hardly 
conscious  : any  misgiving  that  had  sprung  into  an  indis- 
tinct and  undefined  existence  since  that  recent  night 
when  she  had  gone  down  to  her  father's  room  : -that 
Walter's  accidental  interest  in  her,  and  early  knowledge 
of  her,  might  have  involved  him  in  that  powerful  dis- 
pleasure and  dislike  ? Had  Walter  any  such  idea,  or  any 
sudden  thought  that  it  was  in  her  mind  at  that  moment  ? 
Neither  of  them  hinted  at  it.  Neither  of  them  spoke 
at  all,  for  some  short  time.  Susan,  walking  on  the  other 
side  of  Walter,  eyed  them  both  sharply  ; and  certainly 
Miss  Nipper's  thoughts  travelled  in  that  direction,  and 
very  confidently  too. 

“You  may  come  back  very  soon,”  said  Florence, 
“perhaps,  Walter.” 

“ I may  come  back,”  said  Walter,  “an  old  man  and 
find  you  an  old  lady.  But  I hope  for  better  things.” 

“Papa,”  said  Florence,  after  a moment,  “ will-rwill 
recover  from  his  grief,  and — speak  more  freely  to  me 
one  day,  perhaps  ; and  if  he  should,  I will  tell  him  how 
much  I wish  to  see  you  back  again,  and  ask  him  to  re- 
call you  for  my  sake.” 

There  was  a touching  modulation  in  these  words  about 
her  father  that  Walter  understood  too  well. 

The  coach  being  close  at  hand,  he  would  have  left  her 
without  speaking,  for  now  he  felt  what  parting  was  ; 
but  Florence  held  his  hand  when  she  was  seated,  and 
then  he  found  there  was  a little  packet  in  her  own. 

“Walter,”  she  said,  looking  full  upon  him  with  her 
affectionate  eyes,  “ like  you  T hope  for  better  things.  I 
will  pray  for  them,  and  believe  that  they  will  arrive.  I 
made  this  little  gift  for  Paul.  Pray  take  it  with  my 
love,  and  do  not  look  at  it  until  you  are  gone  away. 
And  now,  God  bless  you,  Walter  1 never  forget  me. 
You  are  my  brother,  dear  ! ” 


14 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


He  was  glad  that  Susan  Mpper  came  between  them, 
or  he  might  have  left  her  with  a sorrowful  remembrance 
of  him.  He  was  glad  too  that  she  did  not  look  out  of  the 
coach  again,  but  waved  the  little  hand  to  him  instead, 
as  long  as  he  could  see  it. 

In  spite  of  her  request  he  could  not  help  opening  the 
packet  that  night  when  he  went  to  bed.  It  was  a little 
purse  : and  there  was  money  in  it. 

Bright  rose  the  sun  next  morning,  from  his  absence  in 
strange  countries,  and  up  rose  Walter  with  it  to  receive 
the  captain,  who  was  already  at  the  door  : having  turned 
out  earlier  than  was  necessary,  in  order  to  g;pt  under 
weigh  while  Mrs.  MacStinger  was  yet  slumbering.  The 
captain  pretended  to  be  in  tip-top  spirits,  and  brought 
a very  smoky  tongue  in  one  of  the  pockets  of  the  broad 
blue  coat  for  breakfast. 

‘^And  Wahr,’’  said  the  captain,  when  they  took  their 
seats  at  table,  if  your  uncle’s  the  man  I think  him,  lieTl 
bring  out  the  last  bottle  of  the  Madeira  on  the  present 
occasion.” 

No,  no,  Ned,”  returned  the  old  man.  ‘‘  No  ! -hat 
shall  be  opened  when  Walter  comes  home  again.” 

Well  said  ! ” cried  the  captain.  Hear  him  1 ” 

“ There  it  lies,”  said  Sol  Gills,  ‘'down  in  the  little  cel- 
lar, covered  with  dirt  and  cobv/ebs.  There  may  be  dirt 
and  cobwebs  over  you  and  me  perhaps,  Ned,  before  it 
sees  the  light.” 

“Hear  him!”  cried  the  captain.  “Good  morality  1 
Wal’r  my  lad.  Train  up  a fig-tree  in  the  way  it  should 
go,  and  when  you  are  old  sit  under  the  shade  on  it.  Over- 
haul the — Well,”  said  the  captain  on  second  thoughts, 
“I  ainT  quite  certain  where  that’s  to  be  found ; but 
when  found,  make  a note  of.  Sol  Gills,  heave  a-head 
again  i ” 

“ But  there  or  somwhere  it  shall  lie,  Ned,  until  Wally 
comes  back  to  claim  it,”  said  the  old  man.  “ That’s  all 
I meant  to  say.  ” 

“And  well  said  too,”  returned  the  captain  ; “and  if 
we  three  don’t  crack  that  bottle  in  company.  I’ll  give  you 
two  leave  to  drink  my  allowance  ! ” 

Notwithstanding  the  captain’s  excessive  joviality,  he 
ma(%?  but  a poor  hand  at  the  smoky  tongue,  though  he 
triea  very  hard,  when  anybody  looked  at  him,  to  appear 
as  if  he  were  eating  with  a vast  appetite.  He  was  terri- 
bly afraid,  likewise,  of  being  left  alone  with  either  uncle 
or  nephew  ; appearing  to  consider  that  his  only  chance  of 
safety  as  to  keeping  up  appearances,  was  in  there  being 
ahrays  three  together.  This  terror  on  the  part  of  the 
captain,  reduced  him  to  such  ingenious  evasions  as  run- 
ning to  the  door,  when  Solomon  w^ent  to  put  his  coat  on, 
under  pretence  of  having  seen  an  extraordinary  hackney- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


15 


coacb  pass  : and  darting  out  into  the  road  when  Walter 
went  up-stairs  to  take  leave  of  the  lodgers,  on  a feint  of 
smelling  fire  in  a neighbouring  chimney.  These  artifices 
Captain  Cuttle  deemed  inscrutable  by  any  uninspired  ob- 
server. 

Walter  was  coming  down  from  his  parting  expedition 
up-stairs,  and  was  crossing  the  shop  to  go  back  to  the 
little  parlour,  when  he  saw  a faded  face  he  knew,  look- 
ing in  at  the  door,  and  darted  towards  it. 

Mr.  Carker  ! ” cried  Walter,  pressing  the  hand  of  John 
Carker  the  Junior.  Pray  come  in  ! This  is  kind  of 
you,  to  be  here  so  early  to  say  good  bye  to  me.  You 
knew  how  glad  it  would  make  me  to  shake  hands  with 
you,  once,  before  going  away.  I cannot  say  how  glad  I 
am  to  have  this  opportunity.  Pray  come  in.” 

It  is  not  likely  that  we  may  ever  meet  again,  Wal- 
ter " returned  the  other,  gently  resisting  his  invitation, 
I am  glad  of  this  opportunity  too.  I may  venture 
to  speak  to  you,  and  to  take  you  by  the  hand,  on  the  eve 
of  separation.  I shall  not  have  to  resist  your  frank  ap- 
proaches, Walter,  any  more.” 

There  was  a melancholy  in  his  smile  as  he  said  it,  that 
showed  he  had  found  some  company  and  friendship  for 
his  thoughts  even  in  that. 

Ah,  Mr.  Carker  I ” returned  Walter.  Why  did  you 
resist  them  ? You  could  have  done  me  nothing  but  good, 
1 am  very  sure.” 

He  shook  his  head.  “If  there  were  any  good,”  he 
said,  “ I could  do  on  this  earth,  I would  do  it,  Walter, 
for  you.  The  sight  of  you  from  day  to  day.  has  been  at 
once  happiness  and  remorse  to  me.  But  the  pleasure  has 
outweighed  the  pain.  I know  that,  now,  by  knowing 
what  I lose.” 

“ Come  in,  Mr.  Carker,  and  make  acquaintance  with 
my  good  old  uncle,”  urged  Walter.  I have  often  talked 
to  him  about  you,  and  he  will  be  glad  to  tell  you  all  he 
nears  from  me.  I have  not,”  said  Walter,  noticing  his 
hesitation,  and  speaking  with  embarrassment  himself  : 

"I  have  not  told  him  anything  about  our  last  conversa- 
tion, Mr.  Carker ; not  even  him,  believe  me.” 

The  gray  Junior  pressed  his  hand,  and  tears  rose  in  his 
eyes. 

“ If  ever  I make  acquaintance  with  him,  Walter,”  he 
returned,  “it  will  be  that  I may  hear  tidings  of  you. 
Rely  on  my  not  wronging  your  forbearance  and  consider- 
ation. It  would  be  to  wrong  it,  not  to  tell  him  all  the 
truth,  before  I sought  a word  of  confidence  from  him. 
But  I have  no  friend  or  acquaintance  except  you  : and 
even  for  your  sake,  am  little  likely  to  make  any.” 

“ I wish,”  said  Walter,  “ you  had  suffered  me  to  be  your 
friend  indeed.  I always  wished  it,  Mr.  Carker,  as  you 


1C 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


know  ! but  never  lialf  sp  mucli  as  now,  when  we  are  go. 
ing  to  part.'' 

It  is  enough,"  replied  the  other,  that  you  have  been 
the  friend  of  my  own  breast,  and  that  when  I have  avoids 
ed  you  most^  my  heart  inclined  the  most  towards  you, 
and  was  fullest  of  you.  Walter,  good  bye  ! " 

Good  bye,  Mr.  Garker.  Heaven  be  with  you,  sir  ! 
cried  Walter,  with  emotion. 

If,"  said  the  other,  retaining  his  hand  while  he 
spoke  ; ‘‘If  when  you  come  back,  you  miss  me  from  my 
old  corner,  and  should  hear  from  anyone  where  I am 
lying,  come  and  look  upon  my  grave.  Think  that  I 
might  have  been  as  honest  and  as  happy  as  you  ! And 
let  me  think,  when  I know  my  time  is  coming  on,  that 
some  one  like  my  former  self  may  stand  there,  for  a mo> 
ment,  and  remember  me  with  pity  and  forgiveness  i 
Walter,  good  bye  ! " 

His  figure  crept  like  a shadow  down  the  bright,  sun- 
lighted  street,  so  cheerful  yet  so  solemn  in  the  early 
summer  morning  ; and  slowly  passed  away. 

The  relentless  chronometer  at  last  announced  that  Wah 
ter  must  turn  his  back  upon  the  Wooden  Midshipman  , 
and  away  they  went,  himself,  his  uncle,  and  the  cap- 
tain, in  a hackney-coach  to  a wharf,  where  they  were  to 
take  steamboat  for  some  Reach  down  the  river,  the  name 
of  which,  as  the  captain  gave  it  out,  was  a hopeless 
mystery  to  the  ears  ot  landsmen.  Arrived  at  this  Reach 
(whither  the  ship  had  repaired  by  last  night's  tide),  they 
were  boarded  by  various  excited  watermen,  and  among 
others  by  a dirty  Cyclops  of  the  captain's  acquaintance, 
who,  with  his  one  eye,  had  made  the  captain  out  some 
mile  and  a half  off,  and  had  been  exchanging  unintellig 
ible  roars  with  him  ever  since.  Becoming  the  lawful 
prize  of  this  personage,  who  was  frightfully  hoarse  and 
constitutionally  in  want  of  shaving,  they  were  all  three 
put  aboard  the  Son  and  Heir.  And  the  Son  and  Heir 
was  in  a pretty  state  of  confusion,  with  sails  lying  all 
be-draggled  on  the  wet  decks,  loose  ropes  tripping  people 
up,  men  in  red  shirts  running  barefoot  to  and  fro,  casks 
blockading  every  foot  of  space,  and,  in  the  thickest  of  ^ 
the  fray,  a black  cook  in  a black  caboose  up  to  his  eyes 
in  vegetables  and  blinded  with  smoke. 

The  caxjtain  immediately  drew  Walter  into  a corner, 
and  with  a great  effort,  that  made  his  face  very  red, 
pulled  up  the  silver  watch  which  was  so  big,  and  so 
tight  in  his  pocket,  that  it  came  out  like  a bung. 

“ Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  handing  it  over,  and  shak- 
ing him  heartily  by  the  hand,  “ a parting  gift,  my  lad. 
Put  it  back  half  an  hour  every  morning,  and  about  an- 
other quarter  towards  the  afternoon,  and  it's  a watofe 
that'll  do  you  credit." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


17 


Captain  Cuttle  1 I couldn’t  think  of  it!”  cried 
Walter,  detaining  him,  for  he  was  running  away.  Pray 
take  it  back.  I have  one  already.” 

‘‘  Then  Wal’r,”  said  the  captain,  suddenly  diving  in- 
to one  of  his  pockets  and  bringing  up  the  two  tea-spoons 
and  a sugar-tongs,  with  which  he  had  armed  himself  to 
meet  such  an  objection,  ‘Hake  this  here  trifle  of  plate, 
instead.” 

“No,  no,  I couldn’t,  indeed  1 ” cried  Walter,  ‘ ‘ a thous- 
and thanks  I Don’t  throw  them  away.  Captain  Cuttle  ! ” 
for  the  captain  was  about  to  Jerk  them  overboard. 
“They’ll  be  of  much  more  use  to  you  than  me.  Give 
me  your  stick.  I have  often  thought  that  I should  like 
to  have  it.  There  ! Good  bye,  Captain  Cuttle  ! Take  care 
of  my  uncle  ! Uncle  Sol,  God  bless  you  ! ” 

They  were  over  the  side  in  the  confusion,  before  Wal- 
ter caught  another  glimpse  of  either  ; and  when  he  ran 
up  to  the  stern,  and  looked  after  them,  he  saw  his  undo 
hanging  down  his  head  in  the  boat,  and  Captain  Cuttle 
rapping  him  on  the  back  with  the  great  silver  watch  (it 
must  have  been  very  painful),  and  gesticulating  hope- 
fully with  the  tea-spoons  and  sugar-tongs.  Catching 
sight  of  Walter,  Captain  Cuttle  dropped  the  property 
into  the  bottom  of  the. boat  with  perfect  unconcern,  being 
evidently  oblivious  of  its  existence,  and  pulling  off  the 
glazed  hat  hailed  him  lustily.  The  glazed  hat  made 
quite  a show  in  the  sun  with  its  glistening,  and  the  cap- 
tain continued  to  wave  it  until  he  could  be  seen  no  longer. 
Then  the  confusion  on  board,  which  had  been  rapidly 
increasing,  reached  its  height ; two  or  three  other  boats 
went  away  with  a cheer  ; the  sails  shone  bright  and  full 
above,  as  Walter  watched  them  spread  their  surface  to 
the  favourable  breeze  ; the  water  flew  in  sparkles  from 
the  prow  ; and  off  upon  her  voyage  went  the  Son  and 
Heir,  as  hopefully  and  trippingly  as  many  another  son 
and  heir,  gone  down,  had  started  on  his  way  before 
her. 

Day  and  day.  Old  Sol  and  Captain  Cuttle  kept  her 
reckoning  in  the  little  back  parlour  and  worked  out  her 
course  with  the  chart  spread  before  them  on  the  round 
table.  At  night,  when  Old  Sol  climbed  up-stairs,  so 
lonely,  to  the  attic  where  it  sometimes  blew  great  guns, 
he  looked  up  at  the  stars  and  listened  to  the  wind,  and 
kept  a longer  watch  than  would  have  fallen  to  his  lot  on 
board  the  ship.  The  last  bottle  of  the  old  Madeira, 
which  had  had  its  cruising  days,  and  known  its  dangers 
of  the  deep,  lay  silently  beneath  its  dust  and  cobwebs,  in 
the  meanwhile,  undisturbed. 


18 


WOKKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Mr.  Dombey  goes  upo?i  a Journey. 

‘‘Mr.  Dombey,  sir,’’  said  Major  Bagstock,  “Joey  B.  is 
not  in  general  a man  of  sentiment,  for  Joseph  is  tough. 
But  Joe  has  his  feelings,  sir,  and  when  they  are  awak- 
ened— Damme  Mr.  Dombey,”  cried  the  major  with  sud- 
den ferocity,  “this  is  weakness,  and  I won’t  submit  to 
it  ! ” 

Major  Bagstock  delivered  himself  of  these  expressions 
on  receiving  Mr.  Dombey  as  his  guest  at  the  head  of  his 
own  staircase  in  Princess’s-place.  Mr.  Dombey  had  come 
to  breakfast  with  the  major,  previous  to  their  setting 
forth  on  their  trip  ; and  the  ill-starred  native  had  already 
undergone  a world  of  misery  arising  out  of  the  muffins, 
while,  in  connexion  with  the  general  question  of  boiled 
eggs,  life  was  a burden  to  him. 

“It  is  not  for  an  old  soldier  of  the  Bagstock  breed,” 
observed  the  major,  relapsing  into  a mild  state,  “ to 
deliver  himself  up,  a prey  to  his  own  emotions  ; but — 
damme  sir,”  cried  the  major,  in  another  spasm  of  feroc- 
ity, “ I condole  with  you  ! ” 

The  major’s  purple  visage  deepened  in  its  hue,  and  the 
major’s  lobster  eyes  stood  out  in  bolder  relief,  as  he 
shook  Mr.  Dombey  by  the  hand,  imparting  to  that  peace- 
ful action  as  defiant  a character  as  if  it  had  been  the  pre- 
lude to  his  immediately  boxing  Mr.  Dombey  for  a thous^ 
and  pounds  a side  and  the  championship  of  England 
With  a rotatory  motion  of  his  head,  and  a wheeze  very 
like  the  cough  of  a horse,  the  major  then  conducted  his 
visitor  to  the  sitting-room,  and  there  welcomed  him 
(having  now  composed  his  feelings)  with  the  freedom 
%nd  frankness  of  a travelling  companion. 

“ Dombey,”  said  the  major,  “ I’m  glad  to  see  you. 
I’m  proud  to  see  you.  There  are  not  many  men  in 
Europe  to  whom  J.  Bagstock  would  say  that — for  Josh  is 
blunt,  sir  : it’s  his  nature — but  Joey  B.  is  proud  to  see 
you,  Dombey.” 

“ Major,”  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  “ you  are  very  oblig- 
img.” 

“No,  sir,”  said  the  major,  “Devil  a bit  ! That’s  not 
my  character.  If  that  had  been  Joe’s  character,  Joe 
might  have  been,  by  this  time,  Lieutenant-General  Sir 
Joseph  Bagstock,  K.C.B.,  and  might  have  received  you 
in  very  different  quarters.  You  don’t  know  old  Joe  yet, 
I find.  But  this  occasion,  being  special,  is  a source  of 
pride  to  me.  By  the  Lord,  sir,”  said  the  major  reso- 
lutely, “ it’s  an  honour  to  me  [ ” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


19 


Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  estimation  of  himself  and  his 
money,  felt  that  this  was  very  true,  and  therefore  did 
not  dispute  the  point.  But  the  instinctive  recognition  of 
such  a truth  by  the  major,  and  his  plain  avowal  of  it, 
were  very  agreeable.  It  was  a confirmation  to  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, if  he  had  required  any,  of  his  not  being  mistaken 
in  the  major.  It  was  an  assurance  to  him  that  his  power 
extended  beyond  his  own  immediate  sphere  ; and  that 
the  major  as  an  officer  and  a gentleman,  had  a no  less 
becoming  sense  of  it,  than  the  beadle  of  the  Royal  Ex- 
change. 

And  if  it  were  ever  consolatory  to  know  this,  or  the 
like  of  this,  it  was  consolatory  then,  when  the  impotence 
of  his  will,  the  instability  of  his  hopes,  the  feebleness  of 
wealth,  had  been  so  direfully  impressed  upon  him.  What 
could  it  do,  his  boy  had  asked  him.  Sometimes,  think- 
ing of  the  baby  question,  he  could  hardly  forbear  inquir- 
ing, himself,  what  could  it  do  indeed : what  had  it  done  ? 

But  these  were  lonely  thoughts,  bred  late  at  night  in 
the  sullen  despondency  and  gloom  of  his  retirement,  and 
pride  easily  found  its  re-assurance  in  many  testimonies 
to  the  truth,  as  unimpeachable  and  precious  as  the  ma- 
jor's. Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  friendliness,  inclined  to  the 
major.  It  cannot  be  said  that  he  warmed  towards  him, 
but  he  thawed  a little.  The  major  had  had  some  part — 
and  not  too  much — in  the  days  by  the  sea-side.  He  was 
a man  of  the  world,  and  knew  some  great  people.  He 
talked  much,  and  told  stories  ; and  Mr.  Dombey  was 
disposed  to  regard  him  as  a choice  spirit  who  shone  in 
society,  and  who  had  not  that  poisonous  ingredient  of 
poverty  with  which  choice  spirits  in  general  are  too  much 
adulterated.  His  station  was  undeniable.  Altogether 
the  major  was  a creditable  companion,  well  accustomed 
to  a life  of  leisure,  and  to  such  places  as  that  they  were 
about  to  visit,  and  having  an  air  of  gentlemanly  ease 
about  him,  that  mixed  well  enough  with  his  own  city 
character,  and  did  not  compete  with  it  at  all.  If  Mr. 
Dombey  had  any  lingering  idea  that  the  major,  as  a man 
accustomed,  in  the  way  of  his  calling,  to  make  light  of 
the  ruthless  hand  that  had  lately  crushed  his  hopes, 
might  unconsciously  impart  some  useful  philosophy  to 
him,  and  scare  away  his  weak  regrets,  he  hid  it  from 
himself,  and  left  it  lying  at  the  bottom  of  his  pride,  un- 
examined. 

‘‘  Where  is  my  scoundrel  ! " said  the  major,  looking 
wrathfully  round  the  room. 

The  native,  who  had  no  particular  name,  but  answered 
to  any  vituperative  epithet,  presented  himself  instantly 
at  the  door  and  ventured  to  come  no  nearer. 

You  villain  ! ” said  the  choleric  major,  where's  the 
bs’eakfast  ? " 


20 


WOIiKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


The  dark  servant  disappeared  in  search  of  it,  and  was 
quickly  heard  reascending  the  stairs  in  such  a tremulous 
state,  that  the  plates  and  dishes  on  the  tray  he  carried, 
trembling  sympathetically  as  he  came,  rattled  again  ali 
the  way  up. 

“Dombey,^’  said  the  major,  glancing  at  the  native  as 
he  arranged  the  table,  and  encouraging  him  with  an 
awful  shake  of  his  fist  when  he  upset  a spoon,  “here  is 
a devilled  grill,  a savoury  pie,  a dish  of  kidneys,  and  so 
^forth.  Pray  sit  down.  Old  Joe  can  give  you  nothing 
but  camp  fare,  you  see.” 

“Very  excellent  fare,  major,”  replied  his  guest  ; and 
not  in  mere  politeness  either  ; for  the  major  always  took 
the  best  possible  care  of  himself,  and  indeed  ate  rather 
more  of  rich  meats  than  was  good  for  him,  insomuch  that 
his  Imperial  complexion  was  mainly  referred  by  the 
faculty  to  that  circumstance. 

“ You  have  been  looking  over  the  way,  sir,”  observed 
the  major.  “ Have  you  seen  our  friend?  ” 

“ You  mean  Miss  Tox,”  retorted  Mr.  Dombey.  “ No.” 

“ Charming  woman,  sir,”  said  the  major,  with  a fat 
laugh  rising  in  his  short  throat,  and  nearly  suffocating 
him. 

“ Miss  Tox  is  a very  good  sort  of  person,  I believe,” 
replied  Mr.  Hombey. 

The  haughty  coldness  of  the  reply  seemed  to  afford 
Major  Bagstock  infinite  delight.  He  swelled  and  swelled, 
exceedingly  : and  even  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork  for 
a moment,  to  rub  his  hands. 

“ Old  Joe,  sir,”  said  the  major,  “ was  a bit  of  a favour- 
ite in  that  quarter  once.  But  Joe  has  had  his  day.  J. 
Bagstock  is  extinguished— outrivalled— floored,  sir.  I 
tell  you  what,  Dombey.”  The  major  paused  in  his  eat- 
ing, and  looked  mysteriously  indignant.  “That’s  a de. 
vilisli  ambitious  woman,  sir.” 

Mr.  Hombey  said  “ Indeed  ! ” with  a frigid  indiffer- 
ence : mingled  perhaps  with  some  contemptuous  incred^ 
ulity  as  to  Miss  Tox  having  the  presumption  to  harbour 
such  a superior  quality. 

“ That  woman,  sir,”  said  the  major,  “is,  in  her  way 
a Lucifer.  Joey  B.  has  had  his  day  sir,  but  he  keeps 
his  eyes.  He  sees,  does  Joe.  His  Royal  Highness  the 
late  Duke  of  York  observed  of  Joey,  at  a levee,  that  he 
saw.” 

The  major  accompanied  this  with  such  a look,  and 
between  eating,  drinking,  hot  tea,  devilled  grill,  muffins 
and  meaning,  was  altogether  so  swollen  and  inflamed 
about  the  head,  that  even  Mr.  Hombey  showed  some 
anxiety  for  him. 

“ That  ridiculous  old  spectacle,  sir,”  pursued  the  majoi 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


21 


aspires.  She  aspires  sky-high,  sir.  Matrimonially, 
Dombey.’" 

I am  sorry  for  her/’  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

Don’t  say  that,  Dombey,”  returned  the  major  in  a 
warning  voice. 

Why  should  I not,  major?”  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

The  major  gave  no  answer  but  the  horse’s  cough,  and 
went  on  eating  vigororously. 

She  has  taken  an  interest  in  your  household,”  said 
the  major,  stopping  short  again,  and  been  a frequent 
visitor  at  your  house  for  some  time  now.” 

Yes,”  replied  Mr.  Dombey  with  great  stateliness. 
Miss  Tox  was  originally  received  there,  at  the  time  of 
Mrs.  Dombey’s  death,  as  a friend  of  my  sister’s  ; and 
being  a well-behaved  person,  and  showing  a liking  for 
the  poor  infant,  she  was  permitted — I may  say  encour- 
aged— to  repeat  her  visits,  with  my  sister,  and  gradually 
to  occupy  a kind  of  footing  of  familiarity  in  the  family. 
I have,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  in  the  tone  of  a man  who  was 
making  a great  and  valuable  concession,  I have  a 
respect  for  Miss  Tox.  She  has  been  so  obliging  as  to 
render  many  little  services  in  my  house  : trifling  and  im 
significant  services  perhaps,  major,  but  not  to  be  dis^ 
paraged  on  that  account  : and  I hope  I have  had  the 
good  fortune  to  be  enabled  to  acknowledge  them  by 
such  attention  and  notice  as  it  has  been  in  my  power  to 
bestow.  I hold  myself  indebted  to  Miss  Tox,  major,” 
added  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a slight  wave  of  his  hand,  ‘‘for 
the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance, 

“Dombey,”  said  the  major  warmly  ; “ no  ! No,  sir  ! 
Joseph  Bagstock  can  never  permit  that  assertion  to  pass 
uncontradicted.  Your  knowledge  of  old  Joe,  sir,  such 
as  he  is,  and  old  Joo’s  knowledge  of  you,  sir,  had  its 
origin  in  a noble  fellow,  sir — in  a great  creature,  sir. 
Dombey  ! ” said  the  major,  with  a struggle  which  it  was 
not  very  difficult  to  parade,  his  whole  life  being  a strug- 
gle against  all  kinds  of  apoplectic  symptoms,  “ we  knew 
each  other  through  your  boy.” 

Mr.  Dombey  seemed  touched,  as  it  is  not  improbable 
the  major  designed  he  should  be,  by  this  allusion.  He 
looked  down  and  sighed  : and  the  major,  rousing  him- 
self fiercely,  again  said,  in  reference  to  the  state  of  mind 
into  which  he  felt  himself  in  danger  of  falling,  that 
!his  was  weakness,  and  nothing  should  induce  him  to 
submit  to  it. 

“ Our  friend  had  a remote  connexion  with  that  event,” 
said  the  major,  “ and  all  the  credit  that  belongs  to  her, 
J.  B.  is  willing  to  give  her,  sir.  Notwithstanding  which, 
ma’am,  he  added,  raising  his  eyes  from  his  plate,  and 
casting  them  across  Princess’s-place,  to  where  Miss  Tox 
was  at  that  moment  visible  at  her  window  watering  her 


22 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


flowers,  you’re  a scheming  jade,  ma’am,  and  your  ambi- 
tion is  a piece  of  monstrous  impudence.  If  it  "only  made 
yourself  ridiculous,  ma’am/’  said  the  major,  rolling  his 
head  at  the  unconscious  Miss  Tox,  while  his  starting 
eyes  appeared  to  make  a leap  towards  her,  ‘‘you  might 
do  that  to  your  heart’s  content,  ma’am,  without  any  ob- 
jection, I assure  you,  on  the  part  of  Bagstock.”  Here 
the  major  laughed  frightfully  up  in  the  tips  of  his  ears 
and  in  the  veins  of  his  head.  “But  when,  ma’am/'" 
said  the  major,  “ you  compromise  other  people,  and  gen- 
erous unsuspicious  people  too,  as  a repayment  for  their 
condescension,  you  stir  the  blood  of  old  Joe  in  his  body.” 

“Major,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  reddening,  “I  hope  you 
do  not  hint  at  anything  so  absurd  on  the  part  of  Miss 
Tox  as — ” 

“Dombey,”  returned  the  major,  “I  hint  at  nothing. 
But  Joey  B.  has  lived  in  the  world,  sir  : lived  in  the 
world  with  his  eyes  open,  sir,  and  his  ears  cocked  : and 
Joe  tells  you,  Dombey,  that  there’s  a de-vilish  artful  and 
ambitious  woman  over  the  way.” 

Mr.  Dombey  involuntarily  glanced  over  the  way  ; and 
an  angry  glance  he  sent  in  that  direction,  too. 

“ That’s  all  on  such  a subject  that  shall  pass  the  lips 
of  Joseph  Bagstock,”  said  the  major  firmly.  “Joe  is 
not  a tale-bearer,  but  there  are  times  when  he  must 
speak,  when  he  will  speak  !— confound  your  arts,  ma’am,” 
cried  the  major,  again  apostrophising  his  fair  neighbour, 
with  great  ire,  “ — -when  the  provocation  is  too  strong 
to  admit  of  his  remaining  silent.” 

The  emotion  of  this  outbreak  threw  the  major  into  a 
paroxysm  of  horse’s  coughs,  which  held  him  for  a long 
time.  On  recovering  he  added  : 

“And  now,  Dombey,  as  you  have  invited  Joe — old 
Joe,  who  has  no  other  merit,  sir,  but  that  he  is  tough 
and  hearty — to  be  your  guest  and  guide  at  Leamington, 
command  him  in  any  way  you  please,  and  he  is  wholly 
yours.  I don’t  know,  sir,”  said  the  major,  wagging  his 
double  chin  with  a jocose  air,  “ what  it  is  you  people 
see  in  Joe  to  make  you  hold  him  in  such  great  request, 
ail  of  you  ; but  this  I know,  sir,  that  if  he  wasn’t 
pretty  tough,  and  obstinate  in  his  refusals,  you’d  kill 
Mm  among  you  with  your  invitations,  and  so  forth,  in 
double  quick  time.” 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  a few  words,  expressed  his  sense  of 
the  preference  he  received  over  those  other  distinguished 
members  of  society  who  were  clamoring  for  the  posses- 
sion of  Major  Bagstock.  But  the  major  cut  him  short 
by  giving  him  to  understand  that  he  followed  his  own 
inclinations,  and  that  they  had  rison  up  in  a body  and 
said  with  one  accord,  “ J.  B,,  Dombey  is  the  man  for 
you  to  choose  as  a friend.” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


23 


I'lie  major  being  by  this  time  in  a state  of  repletion, 
with  essence  of  savoury  pie  oozing  out  at  the  corners  of 
his  eyes,  and  deviUed  grill  and  kidneys  tightening  his 
cravat : and  the  time  moreover  approaching  for  the  de- 
parture  of  the  railwa}^  train  to  Birmingham,  by  which 
they  were  to  leave  town  ; the  native  got  him  into  his 
great-coat  with  immense  difficulty,  and  buttoned  him  up 
until  his  face  looked  staring  and  gasping,  over  the  top 
of  that  garment,  as  if  he  were  in  a barrel.  The  native 
then  handed  him  separately,  and  with  a decent  interval 
between  each  supply,  his  wash-leather  gloves,  his  thick 
stick,  and  his  hat  ; which  latter  article  the  major  wore 
with  a rakish  air,  on  one  side  of  his  head,  by  way  of 
toning  down  his  remarkable  visage.  The  native  had 
previously  packed,  in  all  possible  and  impossible  parts 
of  Mr.  Dombey’s  chariot,  which  was  in  waiting,  an  un- 
usual quantity  of  carpet-bags  and  small  portmanteaus, 
no  less  apoplectic  in  appearance  than  the  major  himself  : 
and  having  filled  his  own  pockets,  with  Seltzer  water. 
East  India  sherry,  sandwiches,  shawls,  telescopes,  maps, 
and  newspapers,  any  or  all  of  which  light  baggage  the 
. major  might  require  at  any  instant  of  the  journey,  he 
announced  that  everything  was  ready.  To  complete 
the  equipment  of  this  unfortunate  foreigner  (currently 
believed  to  be  a prince  in  his‘  own  country),  when  ha 
took  his  seat  in  the  rumble  by  the  side  of  Mr.  Towlin- 
son,  a pile  of  the  major’s  cloaks  and  great-coats  was 
hurled  upon  him  by  the  landlord,  who  aimed  at  him 
from  the  pavement  with  those  great  missiles  like  a Titan, 
and  so  covered  him  up,  that  he  proceeded  in  a living 
tomb  to  the  railroad  station. 

But  before  the  carriage  moved  away,  and  while  the  na,- 
tive  was  in  the  act  of  sepulture.  Miss  Tox  appearing  at  her 
window,  waved  a lily-white  handkerchief.  Mr.  Dombey 
received  this  parting  salutation  very  coldly — very  coldly, 
even  for  him — and  honouring  her  with  the  slightest  pos- 
sible inclination  of  his  head,  leaned  back  in  the  carriage 
with  a very  discontented  look.  His  marked  behaviour 
seemed  to  afford  the  major  (who  was  all  politeness  in  his 
recognition  of  Miss  Tox)  unbounded  satisfaction  ; and  he 
sat  for  a long  time  afterwards,  leering,  and  choking, 
like  an  over-fed  Mephistopheles. 

During  the  bustle  of  preparation  at  the  railway,  Mr. 
Dombey  and  the  major  walked  up  and  down  the  plat- 
form side  by  side  ; the  former  taciturn  and  gloomy,  and 
the  latter  entertaining  him,  or  entertaining  himself, 
with  a variety  of  anecdotes  and  reminiscences,  in  mc«t 
of  which  Joe  Bagstock  was  the  principal  performer. 
Neither  of  the  two  observed  that  in  the  course  of  these 
walks,  they  attracted  the  attention  of  a working  man 
who  was  standing  near  the  engine,  nnd  who  touched  his 


24  WORKB  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

hat  every^time  they  passed  ; for  Mr.  Dombey  habitually 
looked  over  the  vulgar  herd,  not  at  them  ; and  the  ma= 
jor  was  looking,  at  the  time,  into  the  core  of  one  of  his 
stories.  At  length,  lioweve'^,  this  man  stepped  before 
them  as  they  turned  round,  and  pulling  his  hat  off,  and 
keeping  it  off,  ducked  his  head  to  Mr.  Dombey. 

‘‘ Beg  your  pardon,  sir,’’  said  the  man,  ‘‘but  I hope 
you’re  a doin’  pretty  well,  sir.” 

He  was  dressed  in  a canvas  suit  abundantly  besmeared 
with  coal-dust  and  oil,  and  had  cinders  in  his  whiskers, 
and  a smell  of  half -slaked  ashes  all  over  him.  He  was 
not  a bad -looking  fellow,  nor  even  what  could  be  fairly 
called  a dirty -looking  fellow,  in  spite  of  this  ; and,  in 
short,  he  was  Mr.  Toodle,  professionally  clothed. 

shall  have  the  honour  of  stokin’  of  you  down,  sir,’’^ 
said  Mr.  Toodle.  ‘‘Beg  your  pardon,  sir.  I hope  you 
dnd  yourself  a coming  round  ? ” 

Mr.  Dombey  looked  at  him,  in  return  for  his  tone  of 
interest,  as  if  a man  like  that  would  make  his  very  eye- 
sight dirty. 

“’Scuse  the  liberty,  sir,”  said  Toodle,  seeing  he  was 
not  clearly  remembered,  “but  my  wife  Polly,  as  was 
called  Richards  in  your  family — ” 

A ciiange  in  Mr.  Dombey ’s  face,  which  seemed  to  ex- 
press recollection  of  him  and  so  it  did,  but  it  expressed 
in  a much  stronger  degree  an  angry  sense  of  humiliation, 
stopped  Mr.  Toodle  short. 

“ Your  wife  wants  money,  I suppose,”  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, putting  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  speaking  (but 
that  he  always  did)  haughtily. 

“No  thank’ee,  sir,”  returned  Toodle,  “I  can’t  say 
she  does,  /don’t.” 

Mr.  Dombey  was  stopped  short  now  in  his  turn  : and 
awkwardly  : with  his  hand  in  his  pocket. 

“ No  sir,”  said  Toodle,  turning  his  oilskin  cap  round 
and  round  ; “ we’re  a doin’  pretty  well  sir  ; “ we  haven’t 
no  cause  to  complain  in  the  worldly  way,  sir.  We’ve 
had  four  more  since  then,  sir,  but  we  rubs  on.” 

Mr.  Dombey  would  have  rubbed  on  to  his  own  car- 
riage, though  in  so  doing  he  had  rubbed  the  stoker  under- 
neath the  wheels  ; but  his  attention  was  arrested  by 
something  in  connection  with  the  cap  still  going  slowly 
round  and  round  in  the  man’s  hand. 

“\¥e  lost  one  babby,”  observed  Toodle,  “there’s  no 
deny  in’.” 

“ Lately,”  added  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  at  the  cap. 

“ No,  sir,  up’ard  of  three  years  ago,  but  all  the  rest  is 
hearty.  And  in  the  matter  o’  readin’  sir,”  said  Toodle, 
ducking  again,  as  if  to  remind  Mr.  Dombey  of  what  had 
passed  between  them  on  that  subject  long  ago,  “them 
boys  o'  mine,  they  learned  me,  among  ’em,  aider  all. 


DOIViHF.Y  AND  SON. 


25 


riieyH’-e  made  a wery  tolerable  scholar  of  me,  sir,  them 
boys.^’ 

‘‘  Come,  major  ! ’’  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

Beg  your  pardon,  sir,’’  resumed  Toodle,  taking  a 
step  before  them  and  deferentially  stopping  them  again, 
still  cap  in  hand  : I wouldn’t  have  troubled  you  with 
such  a pint  except  as  a way  of  gettin’  in  the  name  of 
my  son  Biler — christened  Robin — him  as  you  was  so 
good  as  to  make  a Charitable  Grinder  on.” 

''Well,  man,”  said  Mr.  Dombey  in  his  severest  man- 
ner. ''  What  about  him  ? ” 

"Why,  sir,”  returned  Toodle,  shaking  his  head  with 
a face  of  great  anxiety  and  distress.  " I’m  forced  to 
cay,  sir,  that  he’s  gone  wrong.” 

"He  has  gone  wrong,  has  he?”  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
with  a hard  kind  of  satisfaction. 

" He  has  fell  into  bad  company,  you  see,  gentlemen,” 
pursued  the  father,  looking  wistfully  at  both,  and  evi- 
dently taking  the  major  into  the  conversation  with  the 
hope  of  having  his  sympathy.  ‘ ' He  has  got  into  bad 
ways.  God  send  he  may  come  to  again,  genelmen,  but 
he’s  on  the  wrong  track  now  ! You  could  hardly  bo  of^ 
hearing  of  it  somehow,  sir,”  said  Toodle,  again  address- 
ing Mr.  Dombey  individually  ; "and  it’s  better  I should 
out  and  say  my  boy’s  gone  rather  wrong.  Polly’s  dread- 
ful down  about  it,  genelmen,”  said  Toodle,  with  the 
same  dejected  look,  and  another  appeal  to  the  major, 

' ' A son  of  this  man’s  whom  I caused  to  be  educated, 
major,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  giving  him  his  arm.  " The 
usual  return  ! ” 

" Take  advice  from  plain  old  Joe,  and  never  educate 
that  sort  of  people,  sir,”  returned  the  major.  " Damme 
sir,  it  never  does  ! It  always  fails  ! ” 

The  simple  father  was  beginning  to  submit  that  he 
hoped  his  son,  the  quondam  Grinder,  huffed  and  cuffed, 
and  flogged  and  badged,  and  taught,  as  parrots  are,  by 
a brute  jobbed  into  his  place  of  schoolmaster  with  as 
much  fitness  for  it  as  a hound,  might  not  have  been  edu- 
cated on  quite  a right  plan  in  some  undiscovered  respect, 
when  Mr.  Dombey  angrily  repeating  " The  usual  re- 
turn ! ” led  the  major  away.  And  the  major  being 
heavy  to  hoist  into  Mr.  Dombey’s  carriage,  elevated  in 
mid  air,  and  having  to  stop  and  swear  that  he  would  flay 
the  native  alive,  and  break  every  bone  in  his  skin,  and 
visit  other  physical  torments  upon  him,  every  time  he 
couldn’t  get  his  foot  on  the  step,  and  fell  back  on  that 
dark  exile,  had  barely  time  before  they  started  to  repeat 
hoarsely  that  it  would  never  do  : that  it  always  failed  ■, 
and  that  if  he  were  to  educate  ‘his  own  vagabond,’  he 
would  certainly  be  hanged. 

Mr.  Dombey  assented  bitterly  ; but  ihere  was  some* 
VoL. 


-Dombey  and  Son,  Vol.  Twelve,  page  516. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


37 


thing*  more  in  his  bitterness,  and  in  his  moody  way  of 
falling*  back  in  the^  carriage,  and  looking  with  knitted 
brows  at  the  changing  objects  without,  than  the  failure 
of  that  noble  educational  system  administered  by  the 
Grinders’  Company.  He  had  seen  upon  the  man’s  rough 
cap  a piece  of  new  crape,  and  he  had  assured  himself, 
from  his  manner  and  his  answers,  that  he  wore  it  for  his 
son. 

So  ! from  high  to  low,  at  home  or  abroad,  from  Flor- 
ence in  his  great  house  to  the  coarse  churl  who  was 
feeding  the  fire  then  smoking  before  them,  every  one  set 
up  some  claim  or  other  to  a share  in  his  dead  boy,  and 
was  a bidder  against  him  ! Could  he  ever  forget  how 
that  woman  had  wept  over  his  pillow,  and  called  him 
her  own  child  1 or  how  he,  waking  from  his  sleep,  had 
asked  for  her,  and  had  raised  himself  in  his  bed  and 
brightened  when  she  came  in  ! 

To  think  of  this  presumptuous  raker  among  oals  and 
ashes  going  on  before  there,  with  his  sign  of  mourning  ! 
To  think  that  he  dared  to  enter,  even  by  a common  show 
like  that,  into  the  trial  and  disappointment  of  a proud 
gentleman’s  secret  heart ! To  think  that  this  lost  hild, 
who  was  to  have  divided  with  him  his  riches,  and  his 
projects,  and  his  power,  and  allied  with  whom  he  was  to 
nave  shut  out  all  the  world  as  with  a double  door  of 
gold,  should  have  let  in  such  a herd  to  insult  him  with 
thei”  knowledge  of  his  defeated  hopes,  and  their  boasts 
of  claiming  community  of  feeling  with  himself,  so  far 
removed  : if  not  of  having  crept  into  the  place  wherein 
he  would  have  lorded  it  alone  ! 

He  found  no  pleasure  or  relief  in  the  journey.  Tor- 
tured  by  these  thoughts  he  carried  monotony  with  him, 
through  the  rushing  landscape,  and  hurried  headlong, 
not  through  a rich  and  varied  country,  but  a wilderness 
of  bkghted  plans  and  gnawing  jealousies.  The  very 
speed  at  which  the  train  was  whirled  along  mocked  the 
swift  course  of  the  young  life  that  had  been  borne  away 
so  steadily  a-nd  so  inexorably  to  its  foredoomed  end. 
The  power  that  forced  itself  upon  its  iron  way — its  own 
—defiant  of  all  paths  and  roads,  piercing  through  the 
heart  of  every  obstacle,  and  dragging  living  creatures  of 
all  classes,  ages,  and  degrees  behind  it,  was  a type  of 
the  triumphant  monster.  Death  ! 

Away,  with  a shriek,  and  a roar  and  a rattle,  from  the 
town,  burrowing  among  the  dwellings  of  men  and  mak= 
ing  the  streets  hum,  hashing  out  into  the  meadows  for  a 
moment,  mining  in  through  the  damp  earth,  booming  on 
in  darkness  and  heavy  air,  bursting  out  again  into  the 
sunny  day  so  bright  and  wide  ; away,  with  a shriek,  and 
a roar,  and  a rattle,  through  the  fields,  through  the 
woods,  through  the  corn,  through  the  hay,  through  the 


2S 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


chalk,  through  the  mould,  through  the  clay,  through  the 
rock,  among  objects  close  at  hand  and  almost  in  the 
grasp,  ever  flying  from  the  traveller,  and  a deceitful  dis- 
tance ever  moving  slowly  within  him  : like  as  in  the 
track  of  the  remorseless  monster.  Death  ! 

Through  the  hollow,  on  the  height,  by  the  heath,  by 
the  orchard,  by  the  park,  by  the  garden,  over  the  canal, 
across  the  river,  where  the  sheep  are  feeding,  where  the 
mill  is  going,  where  the  barge  is  floating,  where  the 
dead  are  lying,  where  the  factory  is  smoking,  where  the 
stream  is  running,  where  the  village  clusters,  where  the 
great  cathedral  rises,  where  the  bleak  moor  lies,  and  the 
wild  breeze  smooths  or  ruffles  it  at  its_  inconstant  will ; 
away,  with  a shriek,  and  a roar,  and  a rattle,  land  no 
trace  to  leave  behind  but  dust  and  vapor  : like  as  in  the 
track  of  the  remorseless  monster.  Death  ! 

Breasting  the  wind  and  light,  the  shower  and  sun- 
shine, av/ay,  and  still  away,  it  rolls  and  roars,  fierce  and 
rapid,  smooth  and  certain,  and  great  works  and  massive 
bridges  crossing  up  above,  fall  like  a beam  of  shadow  an 
inch  broad,  upon  the  eye,  and  then  are  lost.  Away,  and 
still  away,  onward  and  onward  ever  : glimpses  of  cot- 
tage-homes, of  houses,  mansions,  rich  estates,  of  hus- 
bandry, and  handicraft,  of  people,  of  old  roads  and  paths 
that  look  deserted,  small,  and  insignificant  as  they  are 
left  behind  ; and  so  they  do,  and  what  else  is  there  but 
such  glimpses,  in  the  track  of  the  indoniitable  monster. 
Death  ! 

Away,  wjth  a shriek,  and  a roar,  and  a rattle,  plunging 
down  into  the  earth  again,  and  working  on  in  such  a 
storm  of  energy  and  perseverance,  that  amidst  the  dark- 
ness and  v/hirbvind  the  motion  seems  reversed,  and  to 
tend  furiously  backward,  until  a ray  of  light  upon  the 
Vv^et  wall  shows  its  surface  flying  past  like  a fierce  stream. 
Away  once  more  into  the  day,  and  through  the  day,  with 
a shrill  yell  of  exultation,  roaring,  rattling,  tearing  on, 
spurning  everything  with  its.  dark  breath,  sometimes 
pausing  for  a minute  where  a crowd  of  faces  are,  that  in 
a minute  more  are  not : sometimes  lapping  water  greed- 
ily, and  before  the  spout  at  which  it  drinks  has  ceased 
to  drip  upon  the  ground,  shrieking,  roaring,  rattling 
through  the  purple  distance  ! 

Louder  and  louder  yet,  it  shrieks  and  cries  as  it  comes 
tearing  on  resistless  to  the  goal  : and  now  its  way, 
still  like  the  way  of  Death,  is  strewn  with  ashes  thickly. 
Everything  around  is  blackened.  There  are  dark  pools 
of  water,  muddy  lanes,  and  miserable  habitations  far 
belov/.  There  are  jagged  w^alls  and  falling  houses  close 
at  hand,  and  through  the  battered  roofs  and  broken  win- 
dows, wretched  rooms  are  seen,  wdiere  want  and  fever 
hide  themselves  in  many  wretched  shapes,  while  smoke 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


39 


and  crowded  gables,  and  distorted  chimneys,  and  deform- 
ity of  brick  and  mortar  penning  up  deformity  of  mind 
and  *^ody  choke  the  murky  distance.  As  Mr.  Dombey 
looks  out  of  his  carriage  window,  it  is  never  in  his 
thoughts  that  the  monster  who  has  brought  him  there 
has  let  the  light  of  day  in  on  these  things  : not  made  or 
caused  them.  It  was  the  journey’s  fitting  end,  and 
might  have  been  the  end  of  everything  ; it  was  so  ruin- 
ous and  dreary. 

So,  pursuing  the  one  course  of  thought,  he  had  the  one 
relentless  monster  still  before  him.  All  things  looked 
black,  and  cold,  and  deadly  upon  him,  and  he  on  them. 
He  found  a likeness  to  his  misfortune  everywhere. 
There  was  a remorseless  triumph  going  on  about  himc 
and  it  galled  and  stung  him  in  his  pride  and  jealousy, 
whatever  form  it  took  : though  most  of  all  when  it 
divided  with  him  the  love  and  memory  of  his  lost  boy. 

There  was  a face — he  had  looked  upon  it,  on  the  previ- 
ous night,  and  it  on  him  with  eyes  that  read  his  soul, 
though  they  were  dim  with  tears,  and  hidden  soon  be- 
hind two  quivering  hands — that  often  had  attended  him 
in  fancy — on  this  ride.  He  had  seen  it,  with  the  expres- 
of  last  night,  timidly  pleading  to  him.  It  was  not  re- 

E roachful,  but  there  was  something  of  doubt,  almost  of 
opeful  incredulity  in  it,  which,  as  he  once  more  saw 
that  fade  away  into  a desolate  certainty  of  his  dislike, 
was  like  reproach.  It  was  a trouble  to  him  to  think  of 
this  face  of  Florence. 

Because  he  felt  any  new  compunction  towards  it  ? No. 
Because  the  feeling  it  awakened  in  him — of  which  he 
had  had  some  old  foreshadowing  in  older  times — was 
full-formed  now,  and  spoke  out  plainly,  moving  him  too 
much,  and  threatening  to  grow  too  strong  for  his  com- 
posure. Because  the  face  was  abroad,  in  the  expression 
of  defeat  and  persecution  that  seemed  to  encircle  him 
like  the  air.  Because  it  barbed  the  arrow  of  that  cruel 
and  remorseless  enemy  on  which  his  thoughts  so  ran, 
and  put  into  its  grasp  a double-handed  sword.  Because 
lie  knew  full  well,  in  his  own  breast,  as  he  stood  there, 
tinging  the  scene  of  transition  before  him  with  the  mor- 
bid colours  of  his  own  mind,  and  making  it  a ruin  and  a 
picture  of  decay,  instead  of  hopeful  change,  and  promise 
of  better  things,  that  life  had  quite  as  much  to  do  with 
his  complainings  as  death.  One  child  was  gone,  and  one 
child  left.  Why  was  the  object  of  his  hope  removed 
instead  of  her  ? 

The  sweet,  calm,  gentle  presence  in  his  fancy,  moved 
him  to  no  reflection  but  that.  She  had  been  unv/elcome 
to  him  from  the  first ; she  was  an  aggravation  of  his  bit- 
terness now.  If  his  son  had  been  his  only  child,  and  the 
same  blow  had  fallen  on  him,  it  would  have  been  heavy 


eo 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


to  bear  ; but  infinitely  lighter  than  now,  when  it  might 
have  fallen  on  her  (whom  he  could  have  lost,  or  he  be- 
lieved it,  without  a pang),  and  had  not.  Her  loving  and 
innocent  face  rising  before  him,  had  no  softening  or 
winning  influence.  He  rejected  the  angel,  and  took  up 
with  the  tormenting  spirit  crouching  in  his  bosom.  Her 
patience,  goodness,  youth,  devotion,  love,  were  as  so 
many  atoms  in  the  ashes  upon  which  he  set  his  heel.  He 
saw  her  image  in  the  blight  and  blackness  all  around 
him,  not  irradiating  but  deepening  the  gloom.  More 
than  once  upon  this  journey,  and  now  again  as  he  stood 
pondering  at  this  journey’s  end,  tracing  figures  in  the 
dust  with  his  stick,  the  thought  came  into  his  mind, 
what  was  there  he  could  interpose  between  himself  and 
it  ? 

The  major,  who  had  been  blowing  and  panting  all  the 
way  down,  like  another  engine,  and  whose  eye  had  often 
wandered  from  his  newspaper  to  leer  at  the  prospect,  as 
if  there  were  a great  procession  of  discomfited  Miss  Toxes 
pouring  out  in  the  smoke  of  the  train,  and  flying  away 
over  the  fields  to  hide  themselves  in  any  place  of  refuge, 
aroused  his  friend  by  informing  him  that  the  post-horses 
were  harnessed  and  the  carriage  ready. 

^^Dombey,”  said  the  major,  rapping  him  on  the  arm 
with  his  cane,  don’t  be  thoughtful.  It’s  a bad  habit. 
Old  Joe,  sir,  wouldn’t  be  as  tough  as  you  see  him,  if  he 
had  ever  encouraged  it.  ^ou  are  too  great  a man,  Dom- 
bey,  to  be  thoughtful.  In  your  position,  sir,  you’re  far 
above  that  kind  of  thing.  ” 

The  major,  even  in  his  friendly  remonstrances,  thus 
consulting  the  dignity  and  honour  of  Mr.  Dombey,  and 
showing  a lively  sense  of  their  importance,  Mr.  Dombey 
felt  more  than  ever  disposed  to  defer  to  a gentleman 
possessing  so  much  good  sense  and  such  a well  regulated 
mind  ; accordingly  he  made  an  effort  to  listen  to  the 
major’s  stories,  as  they  trotted  along  the  turnpike-road  : 
and  the  major,  finding  both  the  pace  and  the  road  a great 
deal  better  adapted  to  his  conversational  pov/ers  than  the 
mode  of  travelling  they  had  just  relinquished,  came  out 
for  his  entertainment. 

In  this  flow  of  spirits  and  conversation,  only  inter- 
rupted by  his  usual  plethoric  symptoms,  and  by  inter- 
vals of  lunch,  and  from  time  to  time  by  some  violent  as- 
sault upon  the  native,  who  wore  a pair  of  ear-rings  in 
his  dark-brov/n  ears,  and  on  whom  his  European  clothes 
sat  with  an  outlandish  impossibility  of  adjustment — b©-' 
ing,  of  their  own  accord,  and  without  any  reference  to 
the  tailor’s  art,  long  where  they  ought  to  be  short,  short 
where  they  ought  to  be  long,  tight  where  they  ought  to 
be  loose,  and  loose  where  they  ought  to  be  tight — and  to 
which  he  imparted  a new  grace,  whenever  the  major  at' 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


31 


tacked  him,  by  shrinking  into  them  like  a shrivelled  nut 
or  a cold  monkey — in  this  flow  of  spirits  and  conversa- 
tion, the  major  continued  all  day  : so  that  when  evening 
came  on,  and  found  them  trotting  through  the  green  anq 
leafy  road  near  Leamington,  the  major’s  voice,  what 
with  talking  and  eating  and  chuckling  and  choking,  ap- 
peared to  be  in  the  box  under  the  rumble,  or  in  some 
neighbouring  haystack.  Nor  did  the  major  improve  it 
at  the  Royal  Hotel,  where  rooms  and  dinner  had  been 
ordered,  and  where  he  so  oppressed  his  organs  of  speech 
by  eating  and  drinking,  that  when  he  retired  to  bed  he 
had  no  voice  at  all,  except  to  cough  with,  and  could 
only  make  himself  intelligible  to  the  dark  servant  by 
gasping  at  him. 

He  not  only  rose  next  morning,  however,  like  a giant 
refreshed,  but  conducted  himself,  at  breakfast,  like  a 
giant  refreshing.  At  this  meal  they  arranged  their 
daily  habits.  The  major  was  to  take  the  responsibility 
of  ordering  everything  to  eat  and  drink  ; and  they  were 
to  have  a late  breakfast  together  every  morning,  and  a 
late  dinner  together  every  day.  Mr.  Dombey  would  pre- 
fer remaining  in  his  own  room,  or  walking  in  the  country 
by  himself,  on  that  first  day  of  their  sojourn  at  Leaming- 
ton ; but  next  morning  he  would  be  happy  to  accompany 
the  major  to  the  Pump-room,  and  about  the  town.  So 
they  parted  until  dinner-time.  Mr.  Dombey  retired  to 
nurse  his  wholesome  thoughts  in  his  own  way.  The 
major,  attended  by  the  native  carrying  a camp-stool,  a 
great-coat,  and  an  umbrella,  swaggered  up  and  down 
through  all  the  public  places  ; looking  into  subscription 
books  to  find  out  who  was  there,  looking  up  old  ladies 
by  whom  he  was  much  admired,  reporting  J.  B,  tougher 
than  ever,  and  pufiing  his  rich  friend  Dombey  wherever 
he  went.  There  never  was  a man  who  stood  by  a friend 
more  staunchly  than  the  major,  when  in  puffing  him  he 
puffed  himself. 

It  was  surprising  how  much  new  conversation  the  ma- 
jor had  to  let  off  at  dinner-time,  and  what  occasion  he 
gave  Mr.  Dombey  to  admire  his  social  qualities.  At 
breakfast  next  morning,  he  knew  the  contents  of  the 
latest  newspapers  received  ; and  mentioned  several  sub- 
jects in  connexion  with  them,  on  which  his  opinion  had 
recently  been  sought  by  persons  of  such  power  and 
might,  that  they  were  only  to  be  obscurely  hinted  at. 
Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  been  so  long  shut  up  within  him- 
self, and  who  had  rarely,  at  any  time,  overstepped  the 
enchanted  circle  within  which  the  operations  of  Dombey 
and  Son  were  conducted,  began  to  think  this  an  im- 
provement on  his  solitary  life  ; and  in  place  of  excusing 
himself  for  another  day,  as  he  had  thought  of  doing 
■ulien  alone,  walked  out  with  the  major  arm-in-arm. 


32 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

New  F(wes. 

The  major,  more  blue-faced  and  staring — more  over^^ 
ripe,  as  it  were,  than  ever — and  giving  vent,  every  now 
and  then,  to  one  of  the  horse’s  coughs,  not  so  much  of 
necessity  as  in  a spontaneous  explosion  of  importance, 
walked  arm-in-arm  with  Mr.  Dombey  up  the  sunny  side 
of  the  way,  with  his  cheeks  swelling  over  his  tight 
stock,  his  legs  majestically  wide  apart,  and  his  great 
head  wagging  from  side  to  side,  as  if  he  were  remon- 
strating within  himself  for  being  such  a captivating  ob- 
ject. They  had  not  walked  many  yards  before  the  ma- 
jor encountered  somebody  he  knew,  nor  many  yards 
farther  before  the  major  encountered  somebody  else  he 
knew,  but  he  merely  shook  his  fingers  at  them  as  he 
passed,  and  led  Mr.  Dombey  on  : pointing  out  the  locali- 
ties as  they  went,  and  enlivening  the  walk  with  any  cur- 
rent scandal  suggested  by  them. 

In  this  manner  the  major  and  Mr.  Dombey  were  walk, 
iug  a^rm-in-arm,  much  to  their  own  satisfaction,  when 
iftey  beheld  advancing  towards  them  a wheeled  chair,  in 
which  a lady  was  seated,  indolently  steering  her  carriage 
by  a kind  of  rudder  in  front,  while  it  was  propelled  by 
some  unseen  power  in  the  rear.  Although  the  lady 
was  not  young,  she  was  very  blooming  in  the  face — quite 
tosy — and  her  dress  and  attitude  were  perfectly  juvenile. 
Walking  by  the  side  of  the  chair,  and  carrying  her  gos- 
samer parasol  with  a proud  and  weary  air,  as  if  so  great 
an  effort  must  be  soon  abandoned,  and  the  parasol 
dropped,  sauntered  a much  younger  lady,  very  hand- 
some, very  haughty,  very  wilful,  who  tossed  her  head 
and  drooped  her  eyelids,  as  though,  if  there  were  any- 
thing in  all  the  world  worth  looking  into  save  a mirror, 
it  certainly  was  not  the  earth  or  sky. 

“ Why,  what  the  devil  have  we  here,  sir  ! ” cried  the 
major,  stopping  as  this  little  cavalcade  drew  near. 

'"My  dearest  Edith  ! ” drawled  the  lady  in  the  chair. 

Major  Bagstock  ! ” 

The  major  no  sooner  heard  the  voice  than  he  relin- 
quished Mr.  Dombey’s  arm,  darted  forward,  took  the 
hand  of  the  lady  in  the  chair  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 
With  no  less  gallantry  the  major  folded  both  his  gloves 
upon  his  heart,  and  bowed  low  to  the  other  lady.  And 
now,  the  chair  having  stopped,  the  motive  power  became 
visible  in  the  shape  of  a flushed  page  pushing  behind, 
who  seemed  to  have  in  part  outgrown  and  in  part  out- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


33 


pushed  his  strength,  for  when  he  stood  upright  he  was 
tal],  and  wa.n,  and  thin,  and  his  plight  appeared  the  more 
forlorn  from  his  having  injured  the  shape  of  his  hat,  hy 
butting  at  the  carriage  with  his  head  to  urge  it  forward, 
as  is  sometimes  done  by  elephants  in  Oriental  conn-= 
tries. 

Joe  Bagstock,’"  said  the  major  to  both  ladies,  ‘‘is  a 
proud  and  happy  man  for  the  rest  of  his  life/’ 

**  You  false  creature,”  said  the  old  lady  in  the  chair, 
insipidly.  ‘‘Where  do  you  come  from?  I can’t  bear 
you.” 

Then  suffer  old  Joe  to  present  a friend,  ma’am,”  said 
the  major,  promptly,  “ as  a reason  for  being  tolerated. 
Mr.  Dombey,  Mrs.  Skewton.  ” The  lady  in  the  chair 
was  gracious.  “ Mr.  Dombey,  Mrs.  Granger.”  The  lady 
with  the  parasol  was  faintly  conscious  of  Mr.  Dombey’s 
taking  off  his  hat,  and  bowing  low.  “ I am  delighted, 
lir,”  said  the  major,  “to  have  this  opportunity.” 

The  major  seemed  in  earnest,  for  he  looked  at  all  the 
three  and  leered  in  his  ugliest  manner. 

“Mrs.  Skewton,  Domfey,”  said  the  major,  “makes 
havoc  in  the  heart  of  old  Josh.” 

Mr.  Dombey  signified  that  he  didn’t  wonder  at  it. 

“ You  perfidious  goblin,”  said  the  lady  in  the  chair, 

have  done  ! How  long  have  you  been  here,  bad  man  ? 

“ One  day,”  replied  the  major. 

“ And  can  you  be  a day,  or  even  a minute,”  returned 
the  lady,  slightly  settling  her  false  curls  and  false  eye- 
brows with  her  fan,  and  showing  her  false  teeth,  set  off 
by  her  false  complexion,  “in  the  garden  of  what’s-its- 
name — ” 

“ Eden,  I suppose,  mama,”  interrupted  the  younger 
lady  scornfully. 

“ My  dear  Edith,”  said  the  other,  “I  cannot  help  it. 
I never  can  remember  those  frightful  names — without 
having  your  whole  soul  and  being  inspired  by  the  sight 
©f  nature  ; by  the  perfume,”  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  rust- 
ling a handkerchief  that  was  faint  and  sickly  with  es- 
sences, “ of  her  artless  breath,  you  creature  !” 

The  discrepancy  between  Mrs.  Skewton’s  fresh  en- 
thusiasm of  words,  and  forlornly  faded  manner,  was 
hardly  less  observable  than  that  between  her  age,  which 
was  about  seventy,  and  her  dress,  which  would  have 
been  youthful  for  twenty-seven.  Her  attitude  in  the 
wheeled  chair  (which  she  never  varied)  was  one  in  which 
she  had  been  taken  in  a barouche,  some  fifty  years  before, 
by  a then  fashionable  artist,  who  had  appended  to  his 
published  sketch  the  name  of  Cleopatra  ; in  consequence 
of  a discovery  made  by  the  critics  of  the  time,  that  it 
bore  an  exact  resemblance  to  that  princess  as  she  re= 
dined  on  board  her  galley.  Mrs.  Skewton  was  a beauty 


34 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


then,  and  bucks  threw  wine-glasses  over  their  heads  by 
dozen  in  her  honour.  The  beauty  and  the  barouche 
had  both  passed  away,  but  she  still  preserved  the  atti- 
tude, and  for  this  reason  expressly,  maintained  the 
wheeled  chair  and  the  butting  page  : there  being  noth-, 
ing  whatever,  except  the  attitude,  to  prevent  her  froni 
walking. 

‘"Mr.  Dombey  is  devoted  to  nature,  I trust?”  said 
Mrs.  Skewton,  settling  her  diamond  brooch.  And  by 
the  way,  she  chiefly  lived  upon  the  reputation  of  some 
diamonds,  and  her  family  connexions. 

‘"My  friend  Dombey,  ma’am,”  returned  the  major, 
“ may  be  devoted  to  her  in  secret,  but  a man  who  is 
paramount  in  the  greatest  city  in  the  universe — 

“ iSlo  one  can  be  a stranger,”  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  “to 
Mr.  Dombey’s  immense  influence.” 

As  Mr.  Dombey  acknowledge  the  compliment  with  a 
bend  of  his  head,  the  younger  lady  glancing  at  him  met 
his  eyes. 

“You  reside  here,  madam?”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  ad., 
dressing  her. 

“ No,  we  have  been  to  a great  many  places.  To  Harro- 
gate, and  ScailDorough,  and  into  Devonshire.  We  have 
been  visiting,  and  resting  here  and  there.  Mama  likes 
change.  ” 

“ Edith  of  course  does  not,’*  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  with 
a ghastly  archness. 

“ I have  not  found  that  there  is  any  change  in  such 
places,”  was  the  answer,  delivered  with  supreme  indif- 
ference. 

‘ ‘ They  libel  me.  There  is  only  one  change,  Mr. 
Dombey,”  observed  Mrs.  Skewton,  with  a mincing  sigh, 
“for  which  I really  care,  and  that  I fear  I shall  never 
be  permitted  to  enjoy.  People  cannot  spare  one.  But 
seclusion  and  contemplation  are  my  what’s-his-name — ” 

“If  you  mean  paradise,  mama,  you  had  better  say  so, 
to  render  yourself  intelligible,”  said  the  younger  lady. 

“My  dearest  Edith,”  returned  Mrs.  Skewton,  “you 
know  that  I am  wholly  dependant  upon  you  for  those 
odious  names.  I assure  you,  Mr.  Dombey,  Nature  in- 
tended me  for  an  Arcadian.  I am  thrown  away  in  so- 
ciety. Cows  are  my  passion.  What  I have  ever  sighed 
for,  has  been  to  retreat  to  a Swiss  farm,  and  live  entirely 
surrounded  by  cows — and  china.  ” 

This  curious  association  of  objects,  suggesting  a re- 
membrance of  the  celebrated  bull  who  got  by  mistake 
into  a crockery  shop,  was  received  with  perfect  gravity 
by  Mr.  Dombey,  who  intimated  his  opinion  that  nature 
was,  no  doubt,  a very  respectable  institution. 

“What  I want,”  drawled  Mrs.  Skewton,  pinching  her 
shrivelled  throat,  “ is  heart.”  It  was  frightfully  true 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


35 


in  one  sense,  if  not  in  that  in  which  she  used  the  phrase. 

What  I want  is  frankness,  confidence,  less  convention, 
alitj,  and  freer  plav  of  soul.  We  are  so  dreadfully  arti- 
iicial.’^ 

We  were  indeed. 

‘'^In  short,”  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  “I  want  nature 
everywhere.  It  would  be  so  extremely  charming.” 

Nature  is  inviting  us  away  now,  mama,  if  you  are 
ready,”  said  the  younger  lady,  curling  her  handsome  lip. 
At  this  hint,  the  wan  page,  who  had  been  surveying  the 
party  over  the  top  of  the  chair,  vanished  behind  it,  as  if 
the  ground  had  swallowed  him  up. 

‘‘ Stop  a moment,  Withers!”  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  as 
the  chair  began  to  move  ; calling  to  the  page  with  all 
the  languid  dignity  with  which  she  had  called  in  days  of 
yore  to  a coachman  with  a wig,  cauliflower  nosegay,  and 
silk  stockings.  “ Where  are  you  staying,  abomina- 
tion. 

The  major  was  staying  at  the  Royal  Hotel,  with  liis 
friend  Donibey. 

You  may  come  and  see  us  any  evening  when  you  are 
good,”  lisped  Mrs.  Skewton.  ‘"If  Mr.  Dombey  will  bon 
our  us,  we  shall  be  happy.  Withers,  go  on  ! ” 

The  major  again  pressed  to  his  blue  lips  the  tips  of  the 
fingers  that  were  disposed  on  the  ledge  of  the  wheeled 
chair  with  careful  carelessness  ; after  the  Cleopatra 
model  : and  Mr.  Dombey  bowed.  The  elder  lady  hon- 
oured them  both  with  a very  gracious  smile  and  a girh 
Ish  wave  of  her  hand  ; the  younger  lady  with  the  very 
slightest  inclination  of  her  head  that  common  courtesey 
allowed. 

The  last  glimpse  of  the  wrinkled  face  of  the  mother, 
with  that  patched  colour  on  it  which  the  sun  made  in- 
finitely more  haggard  and  dismal  then  any  want  of  col- 
our could  have  been,  and  of  the  proud  beauty  of  the 
daughter  with  her  graceful  figure  and  erect  deportment, 
engendered  such  an  involuntary  disposition  on  the  part 
of  both  the  major  and  Mr.  Dombey  to  look  after  them, 
that  they  both  turned  at  the  same  moment.  The  page, 
nearly  as  much  aslant  as  his  own  shadow,  was  toiling 
after  the  chair,  uphill,  like  a slow  battering'-ram  : the 
top  of  Cleopatra’s  bonnet  was  fluttering  m exactly  the 
same  corner  to  the  inch  as  before  ; and  the  Beauty, 
loitering  by  herself  a little  in  advance,  expressed  in  all 
her  elegant  form,  from  head  to  foot,  the  same  supreme 
disregard  of  everything  and  everybody. 

“ I tell  you  what,  sir,”  said  the  major,  as  they  re- 
sumed their  w^alk  again.  “If  Joe  Bagstock  were  a 
younger  man,  there’s  not  a woman  in  the  world  he’d 
prefer  for  Mrs.  Bagstock  to  that  woman.  By  George, 
sir  I”  said  the  major;  she’s  superb  !” 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


■ Do  you  mean  the  daughter  ? ” inquired  Mr.  Domhey, 
Is  Joey  F a turnip,  Domhey,’"  said  the  major, 

that  he  should  mean  the  mother  ! ” 

“ You  v/ere  complimentary  to  the  mother,”  returned 
Mr.  Domhey. 

An  ancient  flame,  sir,”  chuckled  Major  Bagstock, 

Devilish  ancient.  I humour  her.” 

‘‘  She  impresses  me  as  being  perfectly  genteel,”  said 
Mr.  Domhey. 

“ Genteel,  sir,”  said  the  major,  stopping  short,  and 
staring  in  his  companion’s  face.  The  Honourable  Mrs. 
Skewton,  sir,  is  sister  to  the  late  Lord  Feenix,  and 
aunt  to  the  present  lord.  The  family  are  not  wealthy— 
they’re  poor,  indeed — and  she  lives  upon  a small  joint- 
ure ; hut  if  yon  come  to  blood,  sir  ! ” The  major  gave 
a flourish  with  his  stick  and  walked  on  again,  in  despair 
of  being  able  to  say  what  you  came  to,  if  you  come  to 
that. 

‘‘You  addressed  the  daughter,  I observed,”  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  after  a short  pause,  “ as  Mrs.  Granger.” 

“ Edith  Skewton,  sir,”  returned  the  major,  stopping 
short  again,  and  punching  a mark  in  the  ground  with 
his  cane,  to  represent  her,  “ married  (at  eighteen)  Gran- 
ger of  Ours  ; ” whom  the  major  indicated  by  another 
punch.  “ Granger,  sir,”  said  the  major,  tapping  at  the 
last  ideal  portrait,  and  rolling  his  head  emphatically, 
“ was  Colonel  of  Ours  ; a de-vilish  handsome  fellow,  sir, 
of  forty-one.  He  died,  sir,  in  the  second  year  of  his 
marriage.”  The  major  ran  the  representative  of  the  de- 
ceased Granger  through  and  through  the  body  with  his 
walking-stick, and  went  on  again,  carrying  his  stick  over 
his  shoulder. 

“ How  long  is  this  ago  ? ” asked  Mr.  Dombey,  making 
another  halt. 

“ Edith  Granger,  sir,”  replied  the  major,  shutting  one 
eye,  putting  his  head  on  one  side,  passing  his  cane  into 
his  left  hand,  and  smoothing  his  shirt-frill  with  his 
right,  “ is,  at  this  present  time,  not  quite  thirty.  And, 
damme,  sir,”  said  the  major,  shouldering  his  stick 
once  more,  and  walking  on  again,  “ she’s  a peerless  wo^ 
man  ! ” 

“Was  there  any  family  ?”  asked  Mr.  Dombey  pres- 
ently. 

“Yes,  sir,”  said  the  major.  “ There  was  a boy.” 

Mr.  Dombey’s  eyes  sought  the  ground,  and  a shade 
came  over  his  face. 

“ Who  was  drowned,  sir,”  pursued  the  major  ; “ when 
a child  of  four  or  five  years  old.” 

‘ ‘ Indeed  ? ” said  Mr.  Dombey,  raising  his  head. 

“By  the  upsetting  of  a boat  in  which  his  nurse  had  no 
business  to  have  put  him,”  said  the  major  “ That’s  his 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


37 


ilistory.  Edith  Granger  is  Edith  Granger  still  ; hut  if 
tough  old  Joey  B. , sir,  v/ere  a little  younger  and  a little 
richer,  the  name  of  that  immortal  paragon  should  be 
Bagstock.” 

The  major  heaved  his  shoulders,  and  his  cheeks,  and 
laughed  more  like  an  over-fed  Mephistopheles  than  ever, 
as  he  said  the  words. 

‘‘Provided  the  lady  made  no  objection,  I suppose?'* 
said  Mr.  Bomhey,  coldly. 

“By  Gad,  sir,”  said  the  major,  ‘Uhe  Bagstock  breed 
are  not  accustomed  to  that  sort  of  obstacle.  Though  it's 
true  enough  that  Edith  might  have  married  twen-ty 
times,  but  for  being  proud,  sir,  proud.” 

Mr.  Dombey  seemed,  by  his  face,  to  think  no  worse  of 
her  for  that. 

, ‘‘It's  a great  quality  after  all,”  said  the  major  “By 
the  Lord,  if  s a high  quality  ! Dombey  ! You  are  proud 
yourself,  and  your  friend,  old  Joe,  respects  you  for  it, 
sir.” 

With  this  tribute  to  the  character  of  his  ally,  which 
seemed  to  be  wrung  from  him  by  the  force  of  circumstan- 
ces and  the  irresistible  tendency  of  their  conversation,  the 
major  closed  the  subject,  and  glided  into  a general  ex- 
position of  the  extent  to  which  he  had  been  beloved  and 
doted  on  by  splendid  women  and  brilliant  creatures. 

On  the  next  day  but  one,  Mr.  Dombey  and  the  major 
encountered  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Skewton  and  her 
daughter  in  the  pump-room  : on  the  day  after,  they  met 
them  again  very  near  the  place  where  they  had  met  them 
first.  After  meeting  them  thus,  three  or  four  times  in 
all,  it  became  a point  of  mere  civility  to  old  acquaint- 
ances, that  the  major  should  go  there  one  evening, 
Mr.  Dombey  had  not  originally  intended  to  pay  visits, 
but  on  the  major  announcing  his  intention,  he  said  he 
would  have  the  pleasure  of  accompanying  him.  So  the 
major  told  the  Native  to  go  round  before  dinner,  and 
say,  with  his  and  Mr.  Dombey's  compliments,  that  they 
would  have  the  honour  of  visiting  the  ladies  that  same 
evening,  if  the  ladies  were  alone.  In  answer  to  which 
message,  the  Native  brought  back  a very  small  note 
with  a very  large  quantity  of  scent  about  it,  indited  by 
the  Honourable  Mrs.  Skewton  to  Major  Bagstock,  and 
briefly  saying,  “You  are  a shocking  bear  and  I have  a 
great  mind  not  to  forgive  you,  but  if  you  are  very  good 
indeed,”  which  was  underlined,  “ you  may  come.  Com- 
pliments (in  which  Edith  unites)  to  Mr.  Dombey.” 

The  Honourable  Mrs.  Skewton  and  her  daughter,  Mrs. 
Granger,  resided  while  at  Leamington,  in  lodgings  that 
were  fashionable  enough  and  dear  enough,  but  rather 
limited  in  point  of  space  and  conveniences  ; so  that  the 
Honourable  Mrs.  Skewton,  being  in  bed,  had  her  feet  in 


38  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

the  window  and  her  head  in  the  fire-place,  while  the 
Honourable  Mrs.  Skewton’s  maid  was  quartered  in  a closet 
within  the  drawing-room,  so  extremely  small,  that,  to 
avoid  developing  the  whole  of  its  accommodations,  she 
was  obliged  to  writhe  in  and  out  of  the  door  like  a beau 
tiful  serpent.  Withers,  the  wan  page,  slept  out  of  the 
house  immediately  under  the  tiles  at  a neighbouring 
milk-shop  ; and  the  wheeled  chair,  which  was  the  stone 
of  that  young  Sisyphus,  passed  the  night  in  a shed  be- 
longing to  the  same  dairy,  where  new-laid  eggs  were 
produced  by  the  poultry  connected  with  the  establish- 
ment, who  roosted  on  a broken  donkey -cart — persuaded, 
to  all  appearance,  that  it  grew  there,  and  was  a species 
of  tree. 

Mr.  Dombey  and  the  major  found  Mrs.  Skewton  ar- 
ranged, as  Cleopatra,  among  the  cushions  of  a sofa  ; very 
airily  dressed,  and  certainly  not  resembling  Shakespeare's 
Cleopatra,  whom  age  could  not  wither.  On  their  way 
up-stairs  they  had  heard  the  sound  of  a harp,  but  it  had 
ceased  on  their  being  announced,  and  Edith  now  stood 
beside  it  handsomer  and  haughtier  than  ever.  It  was  a 
remarkable  characteristic  of  this  lady's  beauty  that  it 
appeared  to  vaunt  and  assert  itself  without  her  aid,  and 
against  her  will.  She  knew  that  she  was  beautiful  : it 
was  impossible  that  it  could  be  otherwise:  but  she  seemed 
with  her  own  pride  to  defy  her  very  self. 

Whether  she  held  cheap,  attractions  that  could  only 
call  forth  admiration  that  was  worthless  to  her,  or  wheth- 
er she  designed  to  render  them  more  precious  to  ad- 
mirers by  this  usage  of  them,  those  to  whom  they  were 
precious  seldom  paused  to  consider. 

I hope,  Mrs.  Granger,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  advancing 
a step  towards  her,  “ we  are  not  the  cause  of  your  ceas- 
ing to  play  ? " 

You  ? oh  no  !" 

‘"Why  do  you  not  go  on,  then,  my  dearest  Edith 
said  Cleopatra. 

“ I left  off  as  I began — of  my  own  fancy." 

The  exquisite  indifference  of  her  manner  in  saying 
this  : an  indifference  quite  removed  from  dullness  or  in- 
sensibility, for  it  v/as  pointe.l  with  proud  purpose  : wag 
well  set  off  by  the  carelessness  with  which  she  drew  her 
hand  across  the  strings,  and  came  from  that  part  of  the 
room. 

“Do  you  know,  Mr.  Dombey,"  said  her  languishing 
mother,  playing  with  a hand-screen,  “ that  occasionally 
my  dearest  Edith  and  myself  actually  almost  differ-^" 

“Not  quite,  sometimes,  mama?"  said  Edith. 

“ Oh  never  quite,  my  darling  ! Fie,  fie,  it  would  break 
my  lieart,"  returned  her  mother,  making  a faint  attempt 
k)  pat  her  with  the  screen,  which  Edith  made  no  move- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


39 


ment  to  meet,  — about  these  cold  conventionalities  of 
manner  that  are  observed  in  little  things?  Why  are  we 
not  more  natural ! Dear  me  ! With  all  those  yearnings, 
and  gushings,  and  impulsive  throbbings  that  we  have 
Implanted  in  our  souls,  and  which  are  so  very  charming, 
why  are  we  not  more  natural  ? 

Mr.  Dombey  said  it  was  very  true,  very  true. 

We  could  be  more  natural  I suppose  if  we  tried  ?^’ 
said  Mrs.  Skewton. 

Mr.  Dombey  thought  it  possible. 

Devil  a bit,  ma’am,"’  said  the  major.  ‘‘We  couldn’t 
afford  it.  Unless  the  world  was  peopled  with  J.  B.’s— 
tough  and  blunt  old  Joes,  ma’am,  plain  red  herrings 
with  hard  roes,  sir — ^we  couldn’t  afford  it.  It  wouldn’t 
do.” 

“ You  naughty  infidel,”  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  ‘ ‘ be 
mute.” 

“Cleopatra  commands,”  returned  the  major,  kissing 
his  hand,  “and  Antony  Bagstock  obeys.” 

“The  man  has  no  sensitiveness,”  said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
cruelly  holding  up  the  hand-screen  so  as  to  shut  the 
major  out.  “No  sympathy.  And  what  do  w^e  live  for 
hut  sympathy ! What  else  is  so  extremely  charming  ! 
Without  that  gleam  of  sunshine  on  our  cold  cold  earth,” 
said  Mrs.  Skewton,  arranging  her  lace  tucker,  and  com- 
placently ‘observing  the  effect  of  her  bare  lean  arm,  lock- 
ing upward  from  the  wrist,  ‘ ‘ how  could  we  possibly 
bear  it?  In  short,  obdurate  man  !”  glancing  at  the 
major,  round  the  screen,  “ I would  have  my  world  all 
heart ; and  Faith  is  so  excessively  charming,  that  I w^on’t 
allows  you  to  disturb  it,  do  you  hear  ? ” 

The  major  replied  that  it  was  hard  in  Cleopatra  to  re- 
quire the  world  to  be  all  heart,  and  yet  to  appropriate 
to  herself  the  hearts  of  all  the  w^orld  ; which  obliged 
Cleopatra  to  remind  him  that  flattery  was  insupportable 
to  her,  and  that  if  he  had  the  boldness  to  address  her  in 
that  strain  any  more,  she  would  positively  send  him 
home. 

Withers  the  Wan,  at  this  period,  handing  round  the 
tea,  Mr.  Dombey  again  addressed  himself  to  Edith. 

“There  is  not  much  company  here,  it  would  seem?” 
said  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  own  portentous  gentlemanly 
way. 

“ I believe  not.  We  see  none.” 

“ Why  really,”  observed  Mrs.  Skewton  from  her  couch, 
“ there  are  no  people  here  just  how  with  whom  v/e  care 
to  associate.” 

“ They  have  not  enough  heart,”  said  Edith,  with  a 
smile.  The  very  twilight  of  a smile  : so  singularly  were 
its  light  and  darkness  blended, 

“My  dearest  Edith  rallies  me,  you  see  1 ” said  her 


— -Dombey  and  Son,  Vol,  Twelve,  page 40. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


41 


mother,  shaking  her  head  : which  shook  a little  of  itself 
sometimes,  as  if  the  palsy  twinkled  now  and  then  in  op- 
position to  the  diamonds.  Wicked  one  ! ’’ 

“ You  have  been  here  before,  if  I am  not  mistaken?” 
said  Mr.  Dombey.  Still  to  Edith. 

“ Oh,  several  times.  I think  we  have  been  every- 
where.” 

A beautiful  country  ! ” 

I suppose  it  is.  Everybody  says  so,” 

“ Your  cousin  Feenix  raves  about  it,  Edith,”  inter- 
posed her  mother  from  her  couch. 

The  daughter  slightly  turned  her  graceful  head,  and 
raising  her  eyebrows  by  a hair's- breadth  as  if  her  cousin 
Feenix  were  of  all  the  mortal  world  the  least  to  be  re- 
garded, turned  her  eyes  again  towards  Mr.  Dombey. 

I hope,  for  the  credit  of  my  good  taste,  that  I am 
tired  of  the  neighbourhood,”  she  said. 

‘"You  have  almost  reason  to  be,  madam,”  he  replied, 

glancing  at  a variety  of  landscape  drawings,  of  which  he 
ad  already  recognized  several  as  representing  neighbour- 
ing points  of  view,  and  which  v/ere  stiewn  abundantly 
about  the  room,  “if  these  beautiful  productions  are 
from  yonr  hand.” 

She  gave  him  no  reply,  but  sat  in  a disdainful  beauty, 
quite  amazing. 

“ Have  they  that  interest  ? ''  said  Mr.  Dombey.  “ Are 
they  yours  ? ” 

“ Yes.  ” 

“ And  you  play,  I already  know.  ” 

“Yes.” 

“ And  sing.” 

“ Yes.” 

She  answered  all  these  questions  with  a strange  re- 
luctance ; and  with  that  remarkable  air  of  opposition  to 
herself,  already  noticed  as  belonging  to  her  beauty.  Yet 
she  was  not  embarrassed,  but  wholly  self-possessed. 
Neither  did  she  seem  to  wish  to  avoid  the  conversation, 
for  she  addressed  her  face,  and— so  far  as  she  could — her 
manner  also,  to  him  ; and  continued  to  do  so,  when  he 
was  silent. 

“ You  have  many  resources  against  weariness  at  least,” 
said  Mr.  Dombey. 

“ Whatever  their  efficiency  may  be,”  she  returned, 
“ you  know  them  all  now.  I have  no  more.” 

“ May  I hope  to  prove  them  all  ? ” said  Mr.  Dombey, 
with  solemn  gallantry,  laying  down  a drawing  he  had 
held,  and  motioning  towards  the  harp. 

‘ ‘ Oh  certainly  I If  you  desire  it  ! ” 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  crossing  by  her  mother’s 
couch,  and  directing  a stately  look  towards  her,  which 
was  instantaneous  in  its  duration,  but  inclusive  (if  any 


42 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


one  had  seen  it)  of  a multitude  of  expressions,  among 
which  that  of  the  twilight  smile  itself,- overshadowed  all 
the  rest,  went  out  of  the  room. 

The  major,  who  was  quite  forgiven  by  this  time,  had 
wheeled  a little  table  up  to  Cleopatra,  and  was  sitting 
down  to  play  picquet  with  her.  Mr.  Dombey,  notiinow- 
ing  the  game,  sat  down  to  watch  them  for  his  edification 
until  Edith  should  return. 

‘‘We  are  going  to  have  some  music,  Mr.  Dombey,  I 
hope  ? ’’  said  Cleopatra. 

“ Mrs.  Granger  has  been  kind  enough  to  promise  so,’' 
said  Mr.  Dombey. 

“ Ah  ! That’s  very  nice.  Do  you  propose,  major?” 

“No  ma’am,”  said  the  major.  “ Couldn’t  do  it.” 

“ You’re  a barbarous  being,”  replied  the  lady,  “and  my 
hand’s  destroyed.  You  are  fond  of  music,  Mr.  Dom- 
bey ? ” 

“ Eminently  so,”  was  Mr.  Dombey’s  answer. 

“Yes.  It’s  very  nice,”  said  Cleopatra,  looking  at  her 
cards.  “So  much  heart  in  it — undeveloped  recollections 
of  a previous  state  of  existence — and  all  that — which 
is  so  truly  charming.  Do  you  know,”  simpered  Cleopatra, 
reversing  the  knave  of  clubs,  who  had  come  into  her 
game  with  his  heels  uppermost,  “ that  if  anything  could 
tempt  me  to  put  a period  to  my  life,  it  would  be  curiosity 
to  find  out  what  it’s  all  about,  and  what  it  means  ; there 
are  so  many  provoking  mysteries,  really,  that  are  hidden 
from  us.  Major,  you  to  play  ! ” 

The  major  played  ; and  Mr.  Dombey  looking  on  for 
his  instruction,  would  soon  have  been  in  a state  of  dire 
confusion,  but  that  he  gave  no  attention  to  the  game 
whatever,  and  sat  wondering  instead  when  Edith  would 
come  back. 

She  came  at  last,  and  sat  down  to  her  harp,  and  Mr. 
Dombey  rose  and  stood  beside  her,  listening.  He  had 
little  taste  for  music,  and  no  knowledge  of  the  strain  she 
played,  but  he  saw  her  bending  over  it,  and  perhaps  he 
heard  among  the  sounding  strings  some  distant  music  of 
his  own,  that  tamed  the  monster  of  the  iron  road,  and 
made  it  less  inexorable. 

Cleopatra  had  a sharp  eye,  verily,  at  picquet.  It  glis. 
tened  like  a bird’s  and  did  not  fix  itself  upon  the  game, 
but  pierced  the  room  from  end  to  end,  and  gleamed  on 
harp,  performer,  listener,  everything. 

When  the  haughty  beauty  had  concluded,  she  arose, 
and  receiving  Mr.  Dombey’s  thanks  and  compliments  in 
exactly  the  same  manner  as  before,  went  with  scarcely 
any  pause,  to  the  piano,  and  began  there. 

Edith  Granger,  any  song  but  that ! Edith  Granger, 
you  are  very  handsome,  and  your  touch  upon  the  keys 
is  brilliant,  and  your  voice  is  deep  and  rich  ; but  not 


BOMBAY  AND  SON. 


43 


the  air  tliat  his  neglected  daughter  sang  to  his  dead 
son  i 

Alas,  he  knows  it  not  ; and  if  he  did,  what  air  of  hers 
would  stir  him,  rigid  man  ! Sleep,  lonely  Florence, 
sleep!  Peace  in  thy  dreams,  although  the  light  has 
turned  dark,  and  the  clouds  are  gathering,  and  threatejn 
to  discharge  themselves  in  hail  ! 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

A Trifte  of  Management  by  Mr.  Carlcer  the  Manager. 

Mr.  Career  the  manager  sat  at  his  desk,  smooth  and 
soft  as  usual,  reading  those  letters  which  were  reserved 
for  him  to  open,  backing  them  occasionally  with  Such 
memoranda  and  references  as  their  business  purpose  re- 
quired, and  parcelling  them  out  into  little  heaps  for  dis- 
tribution through  the  several  departments  of  the  house. 
The  post  had  come  in  heavy  that  morning,  and  Mr.  Car- 
ker  the  manager  had  a good  deal  to  do. 

The  general  action  of  a man  so  engaged — pausing  to 
look  over  a bundle  of  papers  in  his  hand,  dealing  them 
round  in  various  portions,  taking  up  another  bundle  and 
examining  its  contents  with  knitted  brows  and  pursed- 
out  lips — dealing  and  sorting,  and  pondering  by  turns — 
would  easily  suggest  some  whimsical  resemblance  to  a 
player  at  cards.  The  face  of  Mr.  Carker  the  manager 
was  in  good  keeping  with  such  a fancy.  It  was  the  face 
of  a man  who  studied  his  play,  warily  : who  made  him- 
self master  of  all  the  strong  and  weak  points  of  the 
game  : who  registered  the  cards  in  his  mind  as  they  fell 
about  him,  knew  exactly  what  was  on  them,  what  they 
missed,  and  what  they  made  : who  was  crafty  to  find 
out  what  the  other  players  held,  and  who  never  betrayed 
his  own  hand. 

The  letters  were  in  various  languages,  but  Mr.  Carker 
the  manager  read  them  all.  If  there  had  been  anything 
in  the  ofiices  of  Dombey  and  Son  that  he  could  not  read, 
there  would  have  been  a card  wanting  in  the  pack.  He 
read  almost  at  a glance,  and  made  combinations  of  one 
letter  with  another  and  one  business  with  another  as  he 
went  on,  adding  new  matter  to  the  heaps — much  as  a 
man  would  know  the  cards  at  sight,  and  work  out  their 
combinations  in  his  mind  after  they  were  turned.  Some- 
thing too  deep  for  a partner,  and  much  too  deep  for  an 
adversary,  Mr.  Carker  the  manager  sat  in  the  rays  of  the 
sun  that  came  down  slanting  on  him  through  the  sky- 
light, playing  his  game  alone. 

And  although  it  is  not  among  the  instincts  wild  or  do- 
mestic of  the  cat  tribe  to  play  at  cards,  feline  from  sole 
to  crown  was  Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  as  he  basked'  in 


44 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


the  strip  of  summer  light  and  warmth  that  shone  upon 
his  table  and  the  ground  as  if  they  were  a crooked  dial- 
plate,  and  himself  the  only  figure  on  it.  With  hair  and 
whiskers  deficient  in  colour  at  all  times,  but  feebler  than 
common  in  the  rich  sunshine,  and  more  like  the  coat  of 
a sandy  tortoise-shell  cat ; with  long  nails,  nicely  pared, 
and  sharpened  ; with  a natural  antipathy  to  any  speck 
of  dirt,  which  made  him  pause  sometimes  and  watch  the 
falling  motes  of  dust,  and  rub  them  off  his  smooth  white 
hand  or  glossy  linen  : Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  sly  of 
manner,  sharp  of  tooth,  soft  of  foot,  watchful  of  eye, 
oily  of  tongue,  cruel  of  heart,  nice  of  habit,  sat  with  a 
dainty  steadfastness  and  patience  at  his  work,  as  if  he 
were  waiting  at  a mouse’s  hole. 

At  length  the  letters  were  disposed  of,  excepting  one 
which  he  reserved  for  a particular  audience.  Having 
locked  the  more  confidential  correspondence  in  a drawer, 
Mr.  Carker  the  manager  rang  his  bell. 

Why  do  you  answer  it  ? ” was  his  reception  of  his 
brother. 

‘‘  The  messenger  is  out,  and  I am  the  next,”  was  the 
submissive  reply. 

‘‘You  are  the  next  ?”  muttered  the  manager.  “ Yes  ! 
Creditable  to  me  ! — There  ! ” 

Pointing  to  the  heaps  of  opened  letters,  he  turned  dis- 
dainfully away  in  his  elbow-chair,  and  broke  the  seal  of 
that  one  which  he  held  in  his  hand. 

“ I am  sorry  to  trouble  you,  James,”  said  the  brother, 
gathering  them  up,  “ but — ” 

“Oh  ! You  have  something  to  say.  I knew  that. 
Well?” 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  did  not  raise  his  eyes  or  turn 
them  on  his  brother,  but  kept  them  on  his  letter,  though 
without  opening  it. 

“ Well  ? ” he  repeated  sharply. 

“ I am  uneasy  about  Harriet.” 

“ Harriet  who  ? what  Harriet  ? I know  nobody  by  that 
mame.” 

“ She  is  not  well, and  has  changed  very  much  of  late.  ” 

“ She  changed  very  much,  a great  many  years  ago,** 
replied  the  manager  ; “and  that  is  all  I have  to  say.” 

“ I think  if  you  would  hear  me — ” 

“Why  should  I hear  you.  Brother  John?”  returned 
the  manager,  laying  a sarcastic  emphasis  on  those  two 
words,  and  throwing  up  his  head,  but  not  lifting  his 
eyes.  “ I tell  you,  Harriet  Carker  made  her  choice  many 
years  ago  between  her  two  brothers.  She  may  repent 
it,  but  she  must  abide  by  it.” 

“ Don’t  mistake  me.  I do  not  say  she  does  repent  it. 
It  would  be  black  ingratitude  in  me  to  hint  at  such  a 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


45 


thing/’  returned  the  other.  Though  believe  me, 
James,  I am  as  sorry  for  her  sacrifice  as  you.”  \ 

As  I ?”  exclaimed  the  manager.  As  I ? ” 

**  As  sorry  for  her  choice — for  what  you  call  her  choice 
— as  you  are  angry  at  it,”  said  the  .Junior. 

“Angry?”  repeated  the  other,  with  a wide  show  of 
his  teeth. 

“ Displeased.  Whatever  word  you  like  best.  You 
know  my  meaning.  There  is  no  oifence  in  my  inten- 
. tion.  ” 

“ There  is  offence  in  everything  you  do,”  replied  his 
brother,  glancing  at  him  with  a sudden  scowl,  which  in 
a moment  gave  place  to  a wider  smile  than  the  last. 
“Carry  those  papers  away,  if  you  please.  I am  busy.” 

His  politeness  v/as  so  much  more  cutting  than  his 
wrath,  that  the  Junior  went  to  the  door.  But  stopping 
at  it,  and  looking  round,  he  said  : 

“'When  Harriet  tried  in  vain  to  plead  for  me  with 
you,  on  your  first  just  indignation,  and  my  first  disgrace  ; 
and  when  she  left  you  James  to  follow  my  broken  for- 
tunes, and  devote  herself,  in  her  mistaken  affection,  to 
a ruined  brother,  because  without  her  he  had  no  one, 
and  was  lost ; she  was  young  and  pretty.  I think  if  you 
could  see  her  nov/ — if  you  would  go  and  see  her — she 
would  move  your  admiration  and  compassion.” 

The  manager  Inclined  his  head,  and  showed  his  teeth, 
’ ' ' 3r  to  some  careless  smalL 


case?”  but  said  never  a 


word. 


“We  thought  in  those  days  : you  and  I both  : that 
she  would  marry  young,  and  lead  a happy  and^ light- 
hearted life,”  pursued  the  other,  “Oh  if  you  knew 
how  cheerfully  she  cast  those  hopes  away  ; how  cheer- 
fully she  has  gone  forward  on  the  path  she  took,  and 
never  once  looked  back  ; you  never  could  say  again  that 
her  name  was  strange  in  your  ears.  Never  ! ” 

Again  the  manager  inclined  his  head,  and  showed  his 
teeth,  and  seemed  to  say,  “ Remarkable  indeed  ! You 
quite  surprise  me  ! ” And  again  he  uttered  never  a 
word. 

“May  I go  on  ? ” said  John  Carker  mildly. 

“ On  your  way?”  replied  his  smiling  brother.  “If 
you  will  have  the  goodness.” 

John  Carker  with  a sigh,  was  passing  slowly  out  at 
the  door,  when  his  brother’s  voice  detained  him  for  a 
moment  on  the  threshold. 

“ If  she  has  gone  and  goes  her  own  way  cheerfully,” 
he  said,  throwing  the  still  unfolded  letter  on  his  desk, 
and  putting  his  hands  firmly  in  his  pockets,  “ you  may 
tell  her  that  I go  as  cheerfully  on  mine.  If  she  has 
never  once  looked  back,  you  may  tell  her  that  I have. 


46 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


sometimes,  to  recall  lier  taking  part  with  you,  and  that 
my  resolution  is  no  easier  to  wear  away/’  he  smiled 
very  sweetly  here  ; than  marble. 

‘'I  tell  her  nothing  of  you.  We  never  speak  about 
you.  Once  a year,  on  your  birthday,  Harriet  says  always, 
‘ Let  us  remember  James  by  name,  and  wish  him  happy, 
but  we  say  no  more.  ’’ 

Tell  it  then,  if  you  please,''  returned  the  other,  ‘‘to 
yourself.  You  can't  repeat  it  too  often,  as  a lesson  to 
you  to  avoid  the  subject  in  speaking  to  me.  I know  no 
Harriet  Carker.  There  is  no  such  person.  You  may 
have  a sister  ; make  much  of  her.  I have  none." 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  took  up  the  letter  again,  and 
waved  it  with  a smile  of  mock  courtesy  towards  the 
door.  Unfolding  it  as  his  brother  withdrew,  and  looking 
darkly  after  him  as  he  left  the  room,  he  once  more 
turned  round  in  his  elbow-chair,  and  applied  himself  to 
a diligent  perusal  of  its  contents. 

It  was  in  the  writing  of  his  great  chief,  Mr.  Dombey, 
and  dated  from  Leamington.  Though  he  was  a quick 
reader  of  all  other  letters,  Mr.  Carker  read  this  slowly  : 
weighing  the  words  as  he  went,  and  bringing  every  tooth 
in  his  head  to  bear  upon  them.  When  he  had  read  it 
through  once,  he  turned  it  over  again,  and  picked  out 
these  passages.  ‘ I find  myself  benefited  by  the  change, 
and  am  not  yet  inclined  to  name  any  time  for  my  return/ 
‘ I wish,  Carker,  you  would  arrange  to  come  down  once 
and  see  me  here,  and  let  me  know  how  things  are  going 
on,  in  person.'  ‘I  omitted  to  speak  to  you  about  young 
Gay.  If  not  gone  per  Son  and  Heir,  or  if  Son  and  Heir 
still  lying  in  the  Docks,  appoint  some  other  young  man 
and  keep  him  in  the  city  for  the  present.  I am  not  de- 
cided.' “Now  that's  unfortunate;"  said  Mr.  Carker 
the  manager,  expanding  his  mouth,  as  if  it  were  made 
of  india-rubber  ; “ for  he's  far  away  !" 

Still  that  passage  which  was  in  a postscript,  attracted 
his  attention  and  his  teeth,  once  more. 

‘‘  I think,"  he  said,  “ my  good  friend  Captain  Cuttle 
mentioned  something  about  being  towed  along  in  the 
wake  of  that  day.  What  a pity  he's  so  far  away  I" 

He  refolded  the  letter,  and  was  sitting  trifling  with  it 
standing  it  long- wise  and  broad -wise  on  his  table,  and 
turning  it  over  and  over  on  all  sides — doing  pretty  much 
the  same  thing  perhaps,  by  its  contents — when  Mr.  Perch 
the  messenger  knocked  softly  at  the  door,  and  coming 
in  on  tiptoe,  bending  his  body  at  every  step  as  if  it  were 
the  delight  of  his  life  to  bow,  laid  some  papers  on  the 
table. 

“ Would  you  please  to  be  engaged,  sir?  " asked  Mr. 
Perch,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  deferentially  putting  his 
head  on  one  side,  like  a man  who  felt  he  had  no  business 


“you  DOG,”  SAID  MR.  CARKER,  THROUGH  HIS  SET  JAWS,  “ i’lL 
STRANGLE  YOU  ! ” 

—Dombey  and  Son,  Vol.  Twelve,  page  47 


48 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


to  liold  it  up  in  sucli  a presence,  and  would  keep  it  as 
much  out  of  the  way  as  possible. 

Who  wants  me  ? ” 

Why,  sir,''  said  Mr.  Perch,  in  a soft  voice,  ''really 
nobody,  sir,  to  speak  of  at  present,  Mr.  Gills  the  Ship's 
Instrument-maker,  sir,  has  looked  in,  about  a little  mat- 
ter of  payment,  he  says  ; but  I mentioned  to  him,  sir, 
that  you  was  engaged  several  deep ; several  deep/' 

Mr.  Perch  coughed  once  behind  his  hand,  and  waited 
for  further  orders. 

" Anybody  else 

" Well  sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  I wouldn't  of  my  own 
self  take  the  liberty  of  mentioning,  sir,  that  there  was 
anybody  else  ; but  that  same  young  lad  that  was  here 
yesterday,  sir,  and  last  week,  has  been  hanging  about 
the  place  ; and  it  looks,  sir,"  added  Mr.  Perch,  stopping 
to  shut  the  door,  "dreadful  unbusiness-like  to  see  him 
whistling  to  the  sparrows  down  the  court,  and  making 
of  'em  answer  him." 

" You  said  he  wanted  something  to  do,  didn't  you. 
Perch?"  asked  Mr.  Carker,  leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
and  looking  at  that  officer. 

"Why,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  coughing  behind  his 
hand  again,  "his  expression  certainly  were  that  he  was 
in  wants  of  a sitiwation,  and  that  he  considered,  some- 
thing might  be  done  for  him  about  the  Docks,  being 
used  to  fishing  with  a rod  and  line  : but — " Mr.  Perch 
shook  his  head  very  dubiously  indeed. 

"What  does  he  say  when  he  comes?"  asked  Mr. 
Carker. 

"Indeed,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  coughing  another 
cough  behind  his  hand,  which  was  always  his  resource 
as  an  expression  of  humility  when  nothing  else  occurred 
to  him,  " his  observation  generally  air  that  he  would 
humbly  wish  to  see  one  of  the  gentlemen,  and  that  he 
wants  to  earn  a living.  But  you  see,  sir,"  added  Perch, 
dropping  his  voice  to  a whisper,  and  turning,  in  the  in- 
violable nature  of  his  confidence,  to  give  the  door  a 
thrust  with  his  hand  and  knee,  as  if  that  would  shut  it 
any  more  when  it  was  shut  already,  " it's  hardly  to  be 
bore,  sir,  that  a common  lad  like  that  should  come  a 
prowling  here,  and  saying  that  his  mother  nursed  ouF 
House's  young  gentleman,  and  that  he  hopes  our  House 
will  give  him  a chance  on  that  account.  I am  sure,  sir," 
observed  Mr.  Perch,  " that  although  Mrs.  Perch  was  at 
that  time  nursing  as  thriving  a little  girl,  as  we've  ever 
took  the  liberty  of  adding  to  our  faiiiily,  I wouldn't  have 
made  so  free  as  drop  a hint  of  her  being  capable  of  im- 
parting nourishment,  not  if  it  was  ever  so  ! " 

Mr.  Carker  grinned  at  him  like  a ahark,  but  in  an  ab- 
sent thoughtful  manner. 


BOMBEY  AND  SON. 


49 


Whether/"  submitted  Mr.  Perch,  after  a short 
silence,  and  another  cough,  it  mightn’t  be  best  for  me 
to  tell  him,  that  if  he  was  seen  here  any  more  he 
would  be  given  into  custody  ; and  to  keep  to  it ! With 
respect  to  bodily  fear,”  said  Mr.  Perch,  "'I  am  so  timid, 
myself,  by  nature,  sir,  and  my  nerves  is  so  unstrung  by 
Mrs.  Perch’s  state,  that  I could  take  my  affidavit  easy.” 

Let  me  see  this  fellow.  Perch,”  said  Mr.  Carker. 

Bring  him  in  ! ” 

Yes,  sir.  Begging  your  pardon,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Perch, 
hesitating  at  the  door,  he’s  rough,  sir,  in  a]:‘:^earance.” 

Never  mind.  If  he’s  there,  bring  him  in.  I’ll  see 
Mr.  Gills  directly.  Ask  him  to  wait  ! ” 

Mr.  Perch  bowed  ; and  shutting  the  door  as  precisely 
and  carefully  as  if  he  were  not  coming  back  for  a week, 
went  on  his  quest  among  the  sparrows  in  the  court. 
While  he  v/as  gone  Mr.  Carker  assumed  his  favourito 
attitude  before  the  fire-place,  and  stood  looking  at  the 
door ; presenting  with  his  under  lip  tucked  into  the 
smile  that  showed  his  whole  row  of  upper  teeth,  a sin 
gularly  crouching  appearance. 

The  messenger  was  not  long  in  returning,  followed  by 
a pair  of  heavy  boots  that  came  bumping  along  the  pas- 
sage like  boxes.  With  the  unceremonious  words  Come 
along  with  you  I — a very  unusual  form  of  introduction 
from  his  lips — Mr.  Perch  then  ushered  into  the  presence 
a strong- built  lad  of  fifteen,  with  a round  red  face,  a 
round  sleek  head,  round  black  eyes,  round  limbs,  and 
round  body,  who,  to  carry  out  the  general  rotundity  of 
his  appearance,  had  a round  .hat  in  his  hand,  without  ^ 
particle  of  brim  to  it. 

Obedient  to  a nod  from  Mr.  Carker,  Perch  had  n*’ 
sooner  confronted  the  visitor  with  that  gentleman  than 
he  withdrew.  The  moment  they  were  face  to  face 
alone,  Mr.  Carker,  without  a word  of  preparation,  took  - 
him  by  the  throat,  and  shook  him  until  his  head  seemed 
loose  upon  his  shoulders. 

The  boy,  who  in  the  midst  cf  his  astonishment  could 
not  help  staring  wildly  at  the  gentleman  with  so  manji 
white  teeth  who  was  .choking  him,  and  at  the  office 
walls,  as  though  determined,  if  he  were  choked,  that  his 
last  look  should  be  at  the  mysteries  for  his  intrusion  into 
which  he  was  paying  such  a severe  penalty,  at  last  con- 
trived  to  utter — 

“ Come  sir  I You  let  me  alone,  will  you  ! ” 

Let  you  alone  ! said  Mr.  Carker.  What ! i 
have  got  you,  have  I ? ” There  was  no  doubt  of  that, 
and  tightly  too.  You  dog,”  said  Mr.  Carker,  through 
his  set  jaws,  Fll  strangle  you  ! ” 

Biler  whimpered,  would  he  though  ? oh  no  he  wouldn’t 

.-Ci 


VoL.  12 


50 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


—and  what  was  he  doing  oc — and  why  didn’t  he  stran<* 
gie  somebody  of  his  own  size  and  not  him:  but  Biler 
was  quelled  by  the  extraordinary  nature  of  his  reception 
and.  as  his  head  became  stationary,  and  he  looked  the 
gentleman  in  the  face,  or  rather  in  the  teeth,  and  saw 
him  snarling  at  him,  he  so  far  forgot  his  manhood  as  to 
cry. 

I haven’t  done  nothing  io  you,  sir,”  said  Biler,  other 
wise  Rob,  otherwise  Grinder,  and  always  Toodle. 

You  young  scoundrel  1 ” replied  Mr.  Carker,  slowly 
releasing  him,  and  moving  back  a step  into  his  favourite 
position.  VHiat  do  yoRmean  by  daring  to  come  here  V 

“ I didn’t  mean  no  harm,  sir,”  whimpered  Rob,  putting 
one  hand  to  his  throat,  and  the  knuckles  of  the  other  to 
his  eyes.  ‘‘  I’ll  never  come  again,  sir.  I only  wanted 
work.” 

Work,  young  Cain  that  you  are  ! ” repeated  Mr. 
Carker  eyeing  him  narrowly.  Ain’t  you  the  idlest 
vagabond  in  London  ? ” 

The  impeachment,  while  it  much  affected  Mr.  Toodle 
junior,  attached  to  his  character  so  justly,  that  he  could 
not  say  a word  in  denial.  He  stood  looking  at  the  gen- 
tleman, therefore,  with  a frightened,  self-convicted,  and 
remorseful  air.  As  to  his  looking  at  him,  it  may  be 
observed  that  he  was  fascinated  by  Mr.  Carker  and  never 
took  his  round  eyes  off  him  for  an  instant. 

Ain’t  you  a thief  ?”  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  his  hands 
behind  him  in  his  pockets. 

‘‘No,  sir,”  pleaded  Rob. 

“You  are  I ” said  Mr.  Cark^er. 

“I  ain’t  indeed,  sir,”  whimpered  Rob.  “I  never  did 
such  a thing  as  thieve,  sir,  if  jou’ll  believe  me.  I know 
I’ve  been  going  wrong,  sir,  ever  since  I took  to  bird- 
catching  and  walking-matching.  I’m  sure  a cove  might 
think,”  said  Mr.  Toodle  junior,  with  a burst  of  penitence, 
“ that  singing  birds  was  innocent  company,  but  nobody 
knows  what  harm  is  in  them  little  creeturs  and  what 
they  brings  you  down  to.” 

They  seemed  to  have  brought  him  down  to  a velvet- 
een jacket  and  trousers  very  much  the  worse  for  wear, 
a particularly  small  red  waistcoat  like  a gorget,  an  in- 
terval of  blue  check,  and  the  hat  before  mentioned. 

“ I ain’t  been  home  twenty  times  since  them  birds  got 
their  will  of  me,”  said  Rob,  “and  that’s  ten  months. 
Hov/  can  I go  home  when  everybody’s  miserable  to  see 
me  ! I wonder,”  said  Biler,  blubbering  outright,  and 
smearing  his  eyes  with  his  coat-cuff,  “that  I haven’t 
been  and  drownded  myself  over  and  over  again.” 

All  of  which,  including  his  expression  of  surprise  at 
not  having  achieved  this  last  scarce  perfoinnaiice,  the 
boy  said,  just  as  if  the  teeth  of  Mr.  Carker  drew  it  out 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


51 


of  him,  and  he  had  no  power  of  concealing  anything 
with  that  battery  of  attraction  in  full  play. 

You’re  a nice  young  gentleman  ! ” said  Mr.  Carker, 
shaking  his  head  at  him.  “ There’s  hemp- seed  sown 
for  you,  my  fine  fellow  ! ” 

'M’m  sure,  sir,”  returned  the  wretched  Biler,  blubber- 
ing again,  and  again  having  recourse  to  his  coat-cuff  : 

I shouldn’t  care,  sometimes,  if  it  was  growed  too.  My 
misfortunes,  all  began  in  wagging,  sir  ; but  what  could 
I do  exceptin’  wag  ? ” 

‘"Excepting  what?”  said  Mr.  Carker. 

Wag,  sir.  Wagging  from  school.” 

""  Do  you  mean  pretending  to  go  there,  and  not  going  i’* 
said  Mr.  Carker. 

""  Yes,  sir,  that’s  wagging,  sir,”  returned  the  quondam 
Grinder,  much  affected.  I was  chivied  through  the 
streets,  sir,  when  1 went  there,  and  pounded  when  1 got 
there.  So  1 wagged,  and  hid  myself,  and  that  began 
it.” 

""  And  you  mean  to  tell  me,”  said  Mr.  Carker,  taking 
him  by  the  throat  again,  holding  him  out  at  arms-length, 
and  surveying  him  in  silence  for  some  moments,  ‘"that 
you  want  a place,  do  you  ? ” 

‘"  1 should  be  thankful  to  be  tried,  sir,”  returned 
Toodle  junior,  faintly. 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  pushed  him  backwards  into  a 
corner — the  boy  submitting  quietly,  hardly  venturing  to 
breathe,  and  never  once  removing  his  eyes  from  his  face 
—and  rang  the  bell. 

"‘  Tell  Mr.  Gills  to  come  here.” 

Mr.  Perch  was  too  deferential  to  express  surprise  or 
recognition  of  the  figure  in  the  corner  : and  Uncle  Sol 
appeared  immediately. 

‘"  Mr.  Gills  !”  said.  Carker,  with  a smile,  ""sit  down. 
How  do  you  do  ? You  continue  to  enjoy  your  health,  I 
hope  ? ” 

""  Thank  you,  sir,”  returned  Uncle  Sol,  taking  out  his 
pocket-book,  and  handing  over  some  notes  as  he  spoke. 
""  Nothing  ails  me  in  body  but  old  age.  Twenty-five, 
sir.” 

""You  are  as  punctual  and  exact,  Mr.  Gills,”  replied 
the  smiling  manager,  taking  a paper  from  one  of  his 
many  drawers,  and  making  an  endorsement  on  it,  while 
Uncle  Sol  looked  over  him,  "‘  as  one  of  your  ovm  chro  - 
nometers. Quite  right.” 

""  The  Son  and  Heir  has  not  been  spoken,  1 find  by  the 
list,  sir,”  said  Uncle  Sol,  with  a slight  addition  to  the 
usual  tremour  m his  voice. 

""  The  Son  and  Heir  has  not  been  spoken,”  returned 
Carker.  ""  There  seems  to  have  been  tempestuous  wea 


53 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tlier,  Mr.  Gills,  and  slie  lias  probably  been  driven  out  of 
her  course/' 

She  is  safe,  I trust  in  Heaven  !”  said  old  Sol. 

She  is  safe,  I trust  in  Heaven  !"  assented  Mr.  Carker 
in  that  voiceless  manner  of  his  : which  made  the  observ- 
ant young  Toodle  tremble  again.  Mr.  Gills,"  he  added 
aloud,  throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair,  ‘^you  must 
miss  your  nephew  very  much  ? " 

Uncle  Sol,  standing  by  him,  shook  his  head  and 
heaved  a deep  sigh. 

^'Mr.  Gills,"  said  Carker,  with  his  soft  hand  playing 
round  his  mouth,  and  looking  up  into  the  Instiuirnent- 
maker's  face,  “it  would  be  company  to  you  to  have  a 
young  fellow  in  your  shop  just  now,  and  it  would  b© 
obliging  me  if  you  would  give  one  house-room  for  the 
present.  No,  to  be  sure,"  he  added  quickly,  in  antici- 
pation of  what  the  old  man  was  going  to  say,  ^ " there's 
not  much  business  doing  there,  I know  : but  you  can 
make  him  clean  the  place  out,  polish  up  the  instruments . 
drudge,  Mr.  Gills.  That's  the  lad  ! '' 

Sol  Gills  pulled  down  his  spectacles  from  his  forehead 
to  his  eyes,  and  looked  at  Toodle  junior  standing  upright 
in  the  corner  : his  head  presenting  the  appearance  (which 
it  always  did)  of  having  been  newly  drawn  out  of  a bucket 
of  cold  water  ; his  small  waistcoat  rising  and  falling 
quickly  in  the  play  of  his  emotions  ; and  his  eyes  in- 
tently fixed  on  Mr.  Carker,  without  the  least  reference 
to  his  proposed  master. 

“Will  you  give  him  house-room,  Mr.  Gills?"  said 
the  manager. 

Old  Sol,  without  being  quite  enthusiastic  on  the  sub- 
ject, replied  that  he  was  glad  of  any  opportunity,  how- 
ever slight,  to  oblige  Mr,  Carker,  v/hose  wish  on  such  a 
point  was  a command  : and  that  the  Wooden  Midship- 
man would  consider  himself  happy  to  receive  in  his  berth 
any  visitor  of  Mr.  Carkei*'s  selecting. 

Mr.  Carker  bared  himself  to  the  tops  and  botxoms  of 
Ais  gums  : making  the  watchful  Toodle  Junior  tremble 
more  and  more  : and  acknowledged  the  Instrument-mak- 
er's politeness  in  his  most  affable  manner. 

“ ITl  dispose  of  him  so,  then,  Mr.  Gills,"  he  answered, 
rising,  and  shaking  the  old  man  by  the  hand,  “until  I 
make  up  my  mind  what  to  do  with  him,  and  what  he 
deserves.  As  I consider  myself  responsible  for  him,  Mr. 
Gills,"  here  he  smiled  a wide  smile  at  Rob,  who  shook 
before  it:  “I  shall  be  glad  if  you'll  look  sharply  after 
him,  and  report  his  behaviour  to  me.  I'll  ask  a question 
or  two  of  his  parents  as  I ride  home  this  afternoon — re- 
spectable people — to  confirm  some  particulars  in  his  own 
account  of  himself  ; and  that  done,  Mr.  Gills,  I’ll  send 
him  round  to  you  to-morrow  morning.  Good  bye  I " 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


58 


His  smile  at  parting  was  so  full  of  teeth,  that  it  con® 
fused  old  Sol,  and  made  him  vaguely  uncomfortable. 
He  went  home,  thinking  of  raging  seas,  foundering  ships, 
drowning  men,  an  ancient  bot  Je  of  Madeira  never 
brought  to  light,  and  other  dismal  matter. 

Now,  boy  I ” said  Mr.  Carker,  putting  his  hand  on 
young  Toodle’s  shoulder,  and  bringing  him  out  into  the 
middle  of  the  room.  You  have  heard  me  ? 

Rob  said  Yes,  sii 

cf  Perhaps  you  und  irstand,”  pursued  his  patron,  that 
if  you  ever  deceive  o * play  tricks  with  me,  you  had  bet- 
ter have  drowned  yourself,  indeed,  once  for  all,  before 
you  came  here  V 

There  was  nothing  in  any  branch  of  mental  acquisition 
that  Rob  seemed  to  understand  better  than  that. 

If  you  have  lied  to  me,^'  said  Mr.  Carker,  ‘‘  in  any* 
thing,  never  come  in  my  way  again.  If  not,  you  may 
let  me  find  you  waiting  for  me  somewhere  near  your 
mother's  house  this  afternoon.  I shall  leave  this  at  five 
o’clock,  and  ride  there  on  horseback.  Now,  give  me  the 
address." 

Rob  repeated  it  slowly,  as  Mr.  Carker  wrote  it  down. 
Rob  even  spelt  it  over  a second  time,  letter  by  letter,  as 
if  he  thought  that  the  omission  of  a dot  or  scratch  would 
lead  to  his  destruction.  Mr.  Carker  then  handed  him 
out  of  the  room : and  Rob,  keeping  his  round  eyes  fixed 
upon  his  patron  to  the  last,  vanished  for  the  time  being. 

Mr.  Carker  vhe  manager  did  a great  deal  of  business  in 
the  course  of  the  day,  and  bestowed  his  teeth  upon  a 
great  many  people.  In  the  ofldce,  in  the  court,  in  the 
street,  and  on  'Change,  they  glistened  and  bristled  to  a 
terrible  extent.  Five  o'clock  arriving,  and  with  it  Mr, 
Carker's  bay  horse,  they  got  on  horseback,  and  went 
gleaming  up  Cheapside. 

As  no  one  can  easily  ride  fast,  even  f inclined  to  do  so, 
through  the  press  and  throng  of  the  city  at  that  hour, 
and  as  Mr.  Carker  was  not  inclined,  he  went  leisurely 
along,  picking  his  way  among  the  carts  and  carriages, 
avoiding  whenever  he  could  the  wetter  and  more  dirty 
places  in  the  over-watered  road,  and  taking  infinite  pains 
to  keep  himself  and  his  steed  clean.  Glancing  at  the 
passers-by  while  he  was  thus  ambling  on  his  way,  he 
suddenly  encountered  the  round  eyes  of  the  sleek-headed 
Rob  intently  fixed  upon  his  face  as  if  they  had  never 
been  taken  off,  while  the  boy  himself,  with  a pocket- 
handkerchief  twisted  up  like  a speckled  eel,  and  girded 
round  his  waist,  made  a very  conspicuous  demonstration 
of  being  prepared  to  attend  upon  him,  at  whatever  pace 
he  might  think  proper  to  go.  * 

This  attention  however  flattering,  being  one  of  an  un- 
usual kind,  and  attracting  some  notice  from  the  other 


54 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


passengers,  Mr.  Carker  took  advantage  of  a clearer 
thoroughfare  and  a cleaner  road,  and  broke  into  a trot. 
Bob  immediately  did  the  same.  Mr.  Carker  presently 
tried  a canter  ; Rob  was  still  in  attendance.  Then  a 
short  gallop  ; it  was  all  one  to  the  boy.  Whenever  Mr. 
Oarker  turned  his  eyes  to  that  side  of  the  road,  he  still 
saw  Toodle  junior  holding  his  course,  apparently  with- 
out distress,  and  v/orking  himself  along  by  the  elbows 
after  the  most  approved  manner  of  professional  gentle- 
men who  get  over  the  ground  for  wagers. 

Ridiculous  as  this  attendance  was,  it  was  a sign  of  an 
influence  established  over  the  boy,  and  therefore,  Mr. 
Carker,  affecting  not  to  notice  it,  rode  away  into  the 
neighbourhood  of  Mr.  Toodle’s  house.  On  his  slacken- 
ing his  pace  here,  Rob  appeared  before  him  to  point  out 
the  turnings  ; and  when  he  called  to  a man  at  a neigh- 
bouring gateway  to  hold  his  horse,  pending  his  visit  to 
the  buildings  that  had  succeeded  Staggs’s  Gardens, 
Rob  dutifully  held  the  stirrup,  while  the  manager  dis- 
mounted. 

“ Now,  sir,’’  said  Mr.  Carker,  taking  him  by  the 
shoulder,  “ come  along  ! ” 

The  prodigal  son  was  evidently  nervous  of  visiting  the 
parental  abode  : but  Mr.  Carker  pushing  him  on  before, 
he  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  open  the  right  door,  and 
suffer  himself  to  be  walked  into  the  midst  of  his  broth- 
ers and  sisters,  mustered  in  overwhelming  force  round 
the  family  tea-table.  At  sight  of  the  prodigal  in  the 
grasp  of  a stranger,  these  tender  relations  united  in  a 
general  howl,  which  smote  upon  tbe  prodigal’s  breast  so 
sharply  when  he  saw  his  mother  stand  up  among  them 
pale  and  trembling  with  the  baby  in  ber  arms,  that  he 
lent  his  own  voice  to  the  chorus. 

Nothing  doubting  now,  that  the  stranger,  if  not  Mr. 
Ketch  in  person,  was  one  of  that  company,  the  whole  of 
the  young  family  wailed  the  louder,  while  its  more  in- 
fantine members,  unable  to  control  the  transports  of 
emotion  appertaining  to  their  time  of  life;  threw  them- 
selves on  their  backs  like  young  birds  when  terrifled  by 
a hawk,  and  kicked  violently.  At  length  poor  Polly 
making  herself  audible,  said,  with  quivering  lips,  “ O 
Rob,  my  poor  boy,  what  have  you  done  at  last ! ” 

‘^Nothing,  mother,”  cried  Rob,  in  a piteous  voice, 

‘ ^ ask  the  gentleman  ! ” 

“ Don’t  be  alarmed,”  said  Mr.  Carker,  “ I want  to  do 
him  good.” 

At  this  announcement,  Polly,  who  had  not  cried  yet, 
began  to  do  so.  The  elder  Toodles,  who  appeared  to 
have  been  meditating  a rescue,  unclenched  their  fists. 
The  younger  Toodles  clustered  round  their  mother’s 
gown,  and  peeped  from  under  their  own  chubby  arms 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


55 


at  tlaeir  desperado  brother  and  his  unknown  friend. 
Everybody  blessed  the  gentleman  with  the  beautiful 
teeth,  who  wanted  to  do  good. 

This  fellow,’’  said  Mr.  Carker  to  Polly,  giving  him 
a gentle  shake,  is  your  son,  eh  ma’am?” 

Yes  sir,”  sobbed  Polly,  with  a curtsey  ; ''yes  sir.” 

" A bad  son,  I am  afraid  ? ” said  Mr.  Carker. 

" Never  a bad  son  to  me,  sir,”  returned  Polly. 

" To  whom  then  ? ” demanded  Mr.  Carker. 

" He  has  been  a little  wild,  sir,”  replied  Polly,  check- 
ing the  baby,  who  was  making  convulsive  efforts  with 
his  arms  and  legs  to  launch  himself  on  Biler,  through 
the  ambient  air,  " and  has  gone  with  wrong  compan- 
ions ; but  I hope  he  has  seen  the  misery  of  that  sir,  and 
will  do  well  again.” 

Mr.  Carker  looked  at  Polly,  and  the  clean  room  and 
the  clean  children,  and  the  simple  Toodle  face,  com- 
bined of  father  and  mother,  that  was  reflected  and  re- 
peated everywhere  about  him  : and  seemed  to  have 
achieved  the  real  purpose  of  his  visit. 

" Your  husband,  I take  it,  is  not  at  home  ?”  he  said. 

"No  sir,”  replied  Polly.  "He’s  down  the  line  at 
present.” 

The  prodigal  Rob  seemed  very  much  relieved  to  hear 
it : though  still  in  the  absorption  of  all  his  faculties  in 
his  patron,  he  hardly  took  his  eyes  from  Mr.  Carker’s 
face  unless  for  a moment  at  a time  to  steal  a sorrowful 
glance  at  his  mother. 

"Then,”  said  Mr.  Carker,  "I’ll  tell  you  how  I have 
stumbled  on  this  boy  of  yours,  and  who  I am,  and  what 
I am  going  to  do  for  him.” 

This  Mr.  Carker  did,  in  his  own  way  : saying  that  he 
at  first  intended  to  have  accumulated  nameless  terrors 
on  his  presumptuous  head,  for  coming  to  the  where- 
about of  Dombey  and  Son.  That  he  had  relented,  in 
consideration  of  his  youth,  his  professed  contrition,  and 
his  friends.  That  he  was  afraid  he  took  a rash  step 
in  doing  anything  for  the  boy,  and  one  that  might  ex- 
pose him  to  the  censure  of  the  prudent  ; but  that  he  did 
it  of  himself  and  for  himself,  and  risked  the  consequences 
single-handed  ; and  that  his  mother’s  past  connexion  with 
Mr.  Dombey’s  family  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  and  that 
Mr.  Dombey  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  but  that  he,  Mr. 
Carker,  was  the  be-all,  and  the  end-all  of  this  business. 
Taking  great  credit  to  himself  for  his  goodness,  and  re- 
ceiving no  less  from  all  the  family  then  present,  Mr. 
Carker  signified,  indirectly  but  still  pretty  plainly,  that 
Rob’s  implicit  fidelity,  attachment,  and  devotion,  were 
for  evermore  his  due,  and  the  least  homage  he  could  re- 
ceive. And  with  this  great  truth  Rob  himself  was  so 
impressed,  that,  standing  gazing  on  his  patron  with 


56 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tears  rolling  down  liis  cheeks,  lie  nodded  his  shiny  head 
until  it  seemed  almost  as  loose  as  it  had  done  under  the 
same  patron’s  hands  that  morning. 

Polly,  who  had  passed  Heaven  knows  how  many  sleep- 
less nights  on  account  of  this  her  dissipated  first-born,  and 
had  not  seen  him  for  weeks  and  weeks,  could  have  almost 
kneeled  to  Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  as  to  a good  spirit 
— in  spite  of  his  teethe  But  Mr.  Carker  rising  to  depart, 
she  only  thanked  him  with  her  mother’s  prayers  and 
blessings  ; thanks  so  rich  when  paid  out  of  the  heart’s 
mint,  especially  for  any  service  Mr.  Carker  had  rendered, 
that  he  might  have  given  back  a large  amount  of  change^ 
and  yet  been  overpaid. 

As  that  gentleman  made  his  way  among  the  crowding 
children  to  the  door,  Rob  retreated  on  his  mother,  and 
took  her  and  the  baby  in  the  same  repentant  hug. 

I’ll  try  hard,  dear  mother,  now.  Upon  my  soul  I 
will  ! ” said  Rob. 

Oh  do,  my  dear  boy  ! I am  sure  you  will,  for  our 
sakes  and  your  own  ! ” cried  Polly,  kissing  him.  ‘‘  But 
you’re  coming  back  to  speak  to  me,  when  you  have  seen 
the  gentleman  away?” 

I don’t  know,  mother.”  Rob  hesitated,  and  looked 
down.  Father — when’s  he  coming  home  ? ” 

‘‘  Not  till  two  o’clock  to-morrow  morning.” 

''  I’ll  come  back,  mother  dear  ! ” cried  Rob.  And 
passing  through  the  shrill  cry  of  his  brothers  and  sis- 
ters in  reception  of  this  promise,  he  followed  Mr.  Car- 
ker out. 

'"What!”  said  Mr.  Carker,  who  had  heard  this. 
"You  have  a bad  father,  have  you?” 

"No,  sir!”  returned  Rob,  amazed.  "There  ain’t  a 
better  nor  a kinder  father  going,  than  mine  is.  ” 

" Why  don’t  you  want  to  see  him  then  ? ” inquired  his 
patron. 

" There’s  such  a difference  betw'een  a father  and  a 
mother,  sir,”  said  Rob,  after  faltering  for  a moment. 
" He  could  hardly  believe  yet  that  I was  going  to  do  bet- 
ter— -though  I know  he’d  try  to — but  a mother — she  al- 
ways believes  what’s  good,  sir  ; at  least  I know  mj 
mother  does,  God  bless  her  ! ” 

Mr.  CarkePs  mouth  expanded,  but  he  said  no  more 
until  he  was  mounted  on  his  horse,  and  had  dismissed  the 
man  who  held  it,  when,  looking  down  from  the  saddle 
steadily  into  the  attentive  and  watchful  face  of  the  boy, 
he  said  : 

"You’ll  come  to  me  to-morrow  morning,  andyoushall 
be  shov/n  where  that  old  gentleman  lives  ; that  old  gen- 
tleman who  was  with  me  this  morning  ; where  you  are 
going,  as  you  heard  me  say.  ” 

" Yes.,  sir/’  returned  Rob. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


57 


I have  a great  interest  in  that  old  gentleman,  and  in 
serving  him,  you  serve  me,  boy,  do  you  understand? 
Well,^’  he  added,  interrupting  him,  for  he  saw  his  round 
face  brighten  when  he  was  told  that ; I see  you  do.  I 
want  to  know  all  about  that  old  gentleman,  and  how  he 
goes  on  from  day  to  day — for  I am  anxious  to  be  of  ser- 
vice to  him — and  especially  who  comes  there  to  see  him. 
Bo  you  understand  ? 

Rob  nodded  his  stedfast  face,  and  said,  Yes,  sir,’^ 
sgain. 

‘"I  should  like  to  know  that  he  has  friends  who  are 
attentive  to  him,  and  that  they  don't  desert  him — for 
he  Lives  very  much  alone  now,  poor  fellow  ; but  that 
they  are  fond  of  him,  and  of  his  nephew  who  has  gone 
abroad.  There  is  a very  young  lady  who  may  perhaps 
come  to  see  him.  I want  particularly  to  know  all  about 
her.'' 

ITl  take  care,  sir,”  said  the  boy. 

'VAnd  take  care,”  returned  his  patron,  bending  for- 
ward to  advance  his  grinning  face  closer  to  the  boy's, 
and  pat  him  on  the  shoulder  with  the  handle  of  his 
whip  : take  care  you  talk  about  affairs  of  mine  to  no- 
body but  me.” 

*‘To  nobody  in  the  world,  sir,”  replied  Rob,  shaking 
his  head. 

“Neither  there,”  said  Mr.  Carker,  pointing  to  the 
place  they  had  just  left,  “ nor  anywhere  else.  I'll  try 
how  true  and  grateful  you  can  be.  I'll  prove  you  ! '* 
Making  this,  by  his  display  of  teeth  and  by  the  action 
of  the  head,  as  much  a threat  as  a promise,  he  turned 
from  Rob's  eyes,  which  were  nailed  upon  him  as  if  he 
had  won  the  boy  by  a charm,  body  and  soul,  and  rode 
away.  But  again  becoming  conscious,  after  trotting  a 
short  distance,  that  his  devoted  henchman,  girt  as  be- 
fore, was  yielding  him  the  same  attendance,  to  the  great 
amusement  of  sundry  spectators,  he  reined  up,  and  or- 
dered him  off.  To  insure  his  obedience,  he  turned  in  the 
saddle  and  watched  him,  as  he  retired.  It  was  curious 
to  see  that  even  then  Rob  could  not  keep  his  eyes  wholly 
averted  from  his  patron's  face,  but,  constantly  turning 
and  turning  again  to  look  after  him,  involved  himself 
in  a tempest  of  buffetings  and  jostlings  from  the  other 
passengers  in  the  street : of  which,  in  the  pursuit  of  the 
one  paramount  idea,  he  was  perfectly  heedless. 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  rode  on  at  a foot  pace,  with 
the  easy  air  of  one  who  had  performed  all  the  business  of 
the  day  in  a satisfactory  manner,  and  got  it  comfortably 
off  his  mind.  Complacent  and  affable  as  a man  could 
be,  Mr.  Carker  picked  his  way  along  the  streets  and 
hummed  a soft  tune  as  he  went.  He  seemed  to  purr . 
he  was  so  glad. 


58 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKER'S. 


And  in  some  sort,  Mr.  Carker,  in  liis  fancy,  basked 
upon  a hearth  too.  Coiled  up  snugly  at  certain  feet,  he 
was  ready  for  a spring,  or  for  a tear,  or  for  a scratch,  or 
for  a velvet  touch,  as  the  humour  took  took  him  and  oc- 
casion served.  Was  there  any  bird  in  a cage,  that  came 
in  for  a share  of  his  regards  ? 

‘"A  very  young  lady  thought  Mr.  Carker  the  man- 
ager, through  his  song.  Ah  ! when  I saw  her  last, 
she  was  a little  child.  With  dark  eyes  and  hair,  I re- 
collect, and  a good  face  ; a very  good  face  \ I dare  say 
she’s  pretty.” 

More  affable  and  pleasant  yet,  and  humming  his  song 
until  his  many  teeth  vibrated  to  it,  Mr.  Carker  picked 
his  way  along,  and  turned  at  last  into  the  shady  street 
where  Mr.  Dombey’s  house  stood.  He  had  been  so  busy, 
winding  webs  round  good  faces,  and  obscuring  them 
with  meshes,  that  he  hardly  thought  of  being  at  this 
point  of  his  ride,  until,  glancing  down  the  cold  perspec- 
tive of  tall  houses,  he  reined  in  his  horse  quickly  within 
a few  yards  of  the  door.  But  to  explain  why  Mr.  Carker 
reined  in  his  horse  quickly,  and  what  he  looked  at  in  no 
small  surprise,  a few  digressive  words  are  necessary. 

Mr.  Toots,  emancipated  from  the  Blimber  thraldom 
and  coming  into  the  possession  of  a certain  portion  of 
his  worldly  wealth,  which,”  as  he  had  been  wont, 
during  his  last  half-year’s  probation,  to  communicate  to 
Mr.  Feeder  every  evening  as  a new  discovery,  ‘‘the  ex- 
ecutors couldn’t  keep  him  out  of,”  had  applied  himself, 
with  great  diligence,  to  the  science  of  Life.  Fired  with 
a noble  emulation  to  pursue  a brilliant  and  distinguished 
career,  Mr.  Toots  had  furnished  a choice  set  of  apart- 
ments ; had  established  among  them  a sporting  bower, 
embellished  with  the  portraits  of  winning  horses,  in 
which  he  took  no  particle  of  interest ; and  a divan, 
which  made  him  poorly.  In  this  delicious  abode,  Mii 
Toots  devoted  himself  to  the  cultivation  of  those  gentle 
arts  which  refine  and  humanise  existence,  his  chief  in- 
structor in  which  was  an  interesting  character  called 
the  Game  Chicken,  who  was  always  to  be  heard  of  at 
the  bar  of  the  Black  Badger,  wore  a shaggy  white  great- 
- coat  in  the  warmest  weather,  and  knocked  Mr.  Toots 
about  the  head  tliree  times  a week,  for  the  small  con- 
sideration of  ten  and  six  per  visit. 

The  Game  Chicken,  who  was  quite  the  Apollo  of  Mi. 
Toots’s  Pantheon,  had  introduced  to  him  a marker  who 
taught  billiards,  a Life  Guard  who  taught  fencing,  a 
job-master  who  taught  riding,  a Cornish  gentleman  who 
was  up  to  anything  in  the  athletic  line,  and  two  or  three 
other  friends  connected  no  less  intimately  with  the  fine 
arts.  Under  whose  auspices  Mr.  Toots  could  hardly 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


59 


fail  to  improve  apace,  and  under  whose  tuition  he  went 
to  work. 

But,  howe.Yer  it  came  abouir,  it  came  to  pass,  even 
while  these  gentlemen  had  the  gloss  of  novelty  upon 
them,  that  Mr.  Toots  felt,  he  didn't  know  how,  unset- 
tled and  uneasy.  There  were  husks  in  his  corn,  that 
even  Game  Chickens  couldn't  peck  up  ; gloomy  giants 
in  his  leisure,  that  even  Game  Chickens  couldn't  knock 
dov/n.  Nothing  seemed  to  do  Mr.  Toots  so  much  good  as 
incessantly  leaving  cards  at  Mr.  Dombey's  door.  No 
tax-gatlierer  in  the  British  dominions — that  wide-spread 
territory  on  which  the  sun  never  sets,  and  where  the 
tax-gatherer  never  goes  to  bed— was  more  regular  and 
persevering  in  his  calls  than  Mr.  Toots. 

Mr.  Toots  never  went  up-stairs  ; and  always  performed 
the  same  ceremonies,  richly  dressed  for  the  purpose,  at 
the  hall-door. 

* • Oh  ! Good  morning  ! " would  be  Mr.  Toots's  first 
remark  to  the  servant.  For  Mr.  Dombey,"  would  be 
Mr.  Toots's  next  remark,  as  he  handed  in  a card.  ‘‘  For 
Miss  Dombey,"  would  be  his  next,  as  he  handed  in  an- 
other. 

Mr.  Toots  would  then  turn  round  as  if  to  go  away : 
but  the  man  knew  him  by  this  time,  and  knew  he 
wouldn't. 

^'Oh,  I beg  your  pardon,"  Mr.  Toots  would  say,  as  if 
a thought  had  suddenly  descended  on  him.  Is  the 
young  woman  at  home  ? " 

The  man  would  rather  think  she  v/as,  but  wouldn't 
quite  know.  Then  he  would  ring  a bell  that  rang  up« 
stairs,  and  would  look  up  the  staircase,  and  would  say, 
yes  she  was  at  home,  and  was  coming  down.  Then  Miss 
Nipper  would  appear,  and  the  man  would  retire, 

‘‘Oh  ! How  de  do?"  Mr.  Toots  would  say,  with  a 
chuckle  and  a blush. 

Susan  would  thank  him,  and  say  she  was  very  well. 

“ How's  Diogenes  going  on  ? " would  be  Mr.  Toots's  sec- 
ond interrogation. 

Very  well  indeed.  Miss  Florence  was  fonder  and  fond- 
er of  him  every  day.  Mr.  Toots  was  sure  to  hail  this 
with  a burst  of  chuckles,  like  the  opening  of  a bottle  of 
some  effervescent  beverage. 

“Miss  Florence  is  quite  well,  sir,"  Susan  would  add. 

“Oh,  it's  of  no  consequence,  thank'ee,"  was  the  inva- 
riable reply  of  Mr.  Toots  ; and  when  he  had  said  so,  he 
always  went  away  very  fast. 

Now  it  is  certain  that  Mr.  Toots  had  a filmy  something 
in  his  mind,  which  led  him  to  conclude  that  if  he  could 
aspire  successfully  in  the  fulness  of  time,  to  the  hand  of 
Florence,  he  would  be  fortunate  and  blest.  It  certain 
that  Mr.  Toots,  by  some  remote  and  roundabout  road,  had 


00  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DJCKENS. 

got  to  that  point,  and  that  there  lie  made  a stand.  His 
heart  was  wounded  ; he  was  touched  ; he  was  in  love* 
He  had  made  a desperate  attempt,  one  night;  and  sat  up 
all  night  for  the  purpose,  to  write  an  acrostic  on  Florence, 
which  affected  him  to  tears  in  the  conception.  But  he 
never  proceeded  in  the  execution  further  than  the  words 

For  when  I gaze  ” — the  flow  of  imagination  in  which 
he  had  previously  written  down  the  initial  letters  of  the 
other  seven  lines,  deserting  him  at  that  point. 

Beyond  devising  that  very  artful  and  politic  measure 
of  leaving  a card  for  Mr.  Dombey  daily,  the  brain  of  Mr. 
Toots  had  not  worked  much  in  reference  to  the  subject 
that  held  his  feelings  prisoner.  But  deep  consideration 
at  length  assured  Mr.  Toots  that  an  important  step  to  gain, 
was  the  conciliation  of  Miss  Susan  Nipper,  preparatory  to 
giving  her  some  inkling  of  his  state  of  mind. 

A little  light  and  playful  gallantry  towards  this  lady 
seemed  the  means  to  employ  in  that  early  chapter  of  the 
history,  for  winning  her  to  his  interests.  Not  being  able 
quite  to  make  up  his  mind  about  it,  he  consulted  the 
Chicken — without  taking  that  gentleman  into  his  confi- 
dence ; merely  informing  him  that  a friend  in  Yorkshire 
had  written  to  him  (Mr.  Toots)  for  his  opinion  on  such  a 
question.  The  Chicken  replying  that  his  opinion  al  >vays 
was,  Go  in  and  win,”  and  further,  When  your  man’s 
before  you  and  your  work  cut  out,  go  in  and  do  it,”  Mr. 
Toots  considered  this  a figurative  way  of  supporting  his 
own  vievv^  of  the  case,  and  heroically  resolved  to  kiss  Miss 
Nipper  next  day. 

Upon  the  next  day,  therefore,  Mr.  Toots,  putting  into 
requisition  some  of  the  greatest  marvels  that  Burgess  and 
Co.  had  ever  turned  out,  went  off  to  Mr.  Dombey’s  upon 
this  design.  But  his  heart  failed  him  so  much  as  he  ap- 
proached the  scene  of  action,  that,  although  he  arrived 
on  the  ground  at  three  o’clock  in  the  afternoon,  it  was  six 
before  he  knocked  at  the  door. 

Everything  happened  as  usual,  down  to  the  point  when 
Susan  said  her  young  mistress  was  well,  and  Mr.  Toots 
said  it  was  of  no  consequence.^  To  her  amazement,  Mr. 
Toots  instead  of  going  off  like  a rocket,  after  that  obser- 
vation, lingered  and  chuckled. 

‘^Perhaps  you’d  like  to  walk  up-stairs,  sir?”  said  Su- 
san. 

Well,  I think  I will  come  in  !”  said  Mr.  Toots. 

But  instead  of  walking  up-stairs,  the  bold  Toots  made 
an  awkward  plunge  at  Susan  when  the  door  was  shut, 
and  embracing  that  fair  creature,  kissed  her  on  the  cheek. 

Go  along  with  you  ? ” cried  Susan, or  I’ll  tear  your 
eyes  out.  ” 

“ Just  another  !”  said  Mr.  Toots. 

Go  along  with  you  1 ” exclaimed  Susan,  giving  him 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


* ci 


push.  Innocents  like  you,  too  ! Who’ll  begin  next  I 
Go  along,  sir  ! ” 

Susan  was  not  in  any  serious  strait,  for  she  could  hard- 
ly speak  for  laughing  ; but  Diogenes,  on  the  stair-case, 
hearing  a rustling  against  the  wall,  and  a shuffling  of 
feet,  and  seeing  through  the  banisters  that  there  was 
some  contention  going  on,  and  foreign  invasion  in  the 
house,  formed  a different  opinion,  dashed  down  to  the 
rescue,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  had  Mr.  Toots  by 
the  leg, 

Susan  screamed,  laughed,  opened  the  street  door,  and 
ran  down-stairs  ; the  bold  Toots  tumbled  staggering  out 
into  the  street,  wdth  Diogenes  holding  on  to  one  leg  of 
his  pantaloons,  as  if  Burgess  and  Co.  were  his  cooks,  and 
had  provided  that  dainty  morsel  for  his  holiday  enter- 
tainment ; Diogenes  shaken  off,  rolled  over  and  over  in 
the  dust,  got  up  again,  whirled  round  the  giddy  Toots 
and  snapped  at  him  : and  all  this  turmoil,  Mr.  Carker, 
reining  up  his  horse  and  sitting  a little'  at  a distance, 
sav/,  to  his  amazement,  issue  from  the  stately  house  of 
Mr.  Dombey. 

Mr.  Carker  remained  watching  the  discomfited  Toots, 
when  Diogenes  was  called  in,  and  the  door  shut : and 
while  that  gentleman,  taking  refuge  in  a doorway  near 
at  hand,  bound  up  the  torn  leg  of  his  pantaloons  with  a 
costly  silk  handkerchief  that  had  formed  part  of  his  ex- 
pensive outfit  for  the  adventure. 

I beg  your  pardon  sir,”  said  Mr.  Carker,  riding  up, 
with  his  most  propitiatory  smile.  ‘‘I  hope  you  are  not 
hurt  ? ” 

“Oh  no,  thank  you,”  replied  Mr.  Toots,  raising  his 
fiushed  face,  “it’s  of  no  consequence.”  Mr.  Toots 
would  have  signified,  if  he  could,  that  he  liked  it  very 
much. 

“ If  the  dog’s  teeth  have  entered  the  leg,  sir — ” began 
Carker,  with  a display  of  his  own. 

“ No,  thank  you,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  “ it’s  all  quite 
right.  It’s  very  comfortable,  thank  you.” 

“ I have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  Mr.  Dombey,”  ob- 
served Carker. 

“ Have  you  though?”  rejoined  the  blushing  Toots. 

“ And  you  will  allow  me,  perhaps,  to  apologise,  in  his 
absence,”  said  Mr.  Carker,  taking  off  his  hat,  “ for  such 
a misadventure,  and  to  wonder  how  it  can  possibly  have 
happened.  ” 

Mr.  Toots  is  so  much  gratified  by  this  politeness,  and 
the  lucky  chance  of  making  friends  with  a friend  of  Mr, 
Dombey,  that  he  pulls  out  his  card -case,  which  henevef 
Joses  an  opportunity  of  using,  and  hands  his  name  and 
address  to  Mr.  Carker  : who  responds  to  that  courtesy 
by  giving  him  his  own,  and  with  that  they  part. 


62  • WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

As  Mr.  Carker  picks  his  way  so  softly  past  the  house, 
glancing  up  at  the  windows,  and  trying  to  make  out  the 
pensive  face  behind  the  curtain  looking  at  the  children 
opposite,  the  rough  head  of  Diogenes  came  clambering 
up  close  by  it,  and  the  dog,  regardless  of  all  soothing, 
barks  and  growls,  and  makes  at  him  from  that  height, 
as  if  he  would  spring  down  and  tear  him  limb  from 
limb. 

Well  spoken,  Di,  so  near  your  mistress  ! Another, 
and  another  with  your  head  up,  your  eyes  flashing,  and 
your  vexed  mouth  worrying  itself,  for  want  of  him  ! 
Another,  as  he  picks  his  way  along  I You  have  a good 
scent,  Di, — cats,  boy,  cats  ! 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Florence  Solitary^  and  the  Midshipman  Mysteriom, 

Florence  lived  alone  in  the  great  dreary  house,  and 
day  succeeded  day,  and  still  she  lived  alone  ; and  the 
blank  walls  looked  down  upon  her  with  a vacant  stare, 
as  if  they  had  a Gorgon-like  mind  to  stare  her  youth 
and  beauty  into  stone. 

No  magic  dwelling  place  in  magic  story,  shut  up  in 
the  heart  of  a thick  wood,  was  ever  more  solitary  and 
deserted  to  the  fancy,  than  was  her  father's  mansion  in 
its  grim  reality,  as  it  stood  lowering  on  the  street  ; 
always  by  night,  when  lights  were  shining  from  neigh= 
bouring  windows,  a blot  upon  its  scanty  brightness ; 
always  by  day,  a frown  upon  its  never-smiling  face. 

There  were  not  two  dragon  sentries  keeping  ward  be- 
fore the  gate  of  this  abode,  as  in  magic  legend  are  usu- 
ally found  on  duty  over  the  wronged  innocents  im- 
prisoned : but  besides  a glowering  visage,  with  its  thin 
lips  parted  wickedly,  that  surveyed  all  comers  from 
above  the  archway  of  the  door,  there  was  a monstrous 
fantasy  of  rusty  iron  curling  and  twisting  like  a petri- 
faction of  an  arbour  over  the  threshold,  budding  in 
spikes  and  corkscrew  points,  and  bearing,  one  on  either 
side,  two  ominous  extinguishers,  that  seemed  to  say, 
“ Who  enter  here,  leave  light  behind  ! " There  were  no 
talismanic  characters  engraven  on  the  portal,  but  the 
house  was  now  so  neglected  in  appearance  that  boys 
chalked  the  railings  and  the.  pavement — particularly 
round  the  corner  where  the  side  wall  was— and  drew 
ghosts  on  the  stable-door  ; and  being  sometimes  driven 
off  by  Mr.  Towlinson,  made  portraits  of  him  in  return, 
with  his  ears  growing  out  horizontally  from  under  his 
hat.  Noise  ceased  to  be,  within  the  shadow  of  the  roof. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


63 


The  brass  band  that  came  into  the  street  once  a week,  in 
the  morning,  never  brayed  a note  in  at  tliose  windows ; 
but  all  such  company,  down  to  a poor  little  piping  organ 
of  weak  intellect,  with  an  imbecile  party  of  automaton 
dancers  waltzing  in  and  out  at  folding- doors,  fell  off  from 
it  with  one  accord,  and  shunned  it  as  a hopeless  place. 

The  spell  upon  it  was  more  wasting  than  the  spell 
that  used  to  set  enchanted  houses  sleeping  once  upon  a 
time,  but  left  their  waking  freshness  unimpaired. 

The  passive  desolation  of  disuse  was  everywhere 
silently  manifest  about  it.  Within  doors,  curtains, 
drooping  heavily,  lost  their  old  folds  and  shapes,  and 
hung  like  cumbrous  palls.  Hecatombs  of  furniture  still 
piled  and  covered  up,  shrunk  like  imprisoned  and  for- 
gotten men,  and  changed  insensibly.  Mirrors  were 
dim  as  with  the  breath  of  years.  Patterns  of  carpets 
faded  and  became  perplexed  and  faint,  like  the  memory 
of  those  years'  trifling  incidents.  Boards,  starting  at  un- 
wonted footsteps,  creaked  and  shook.  Keys  rusted  in 
the  locks  of  doors.  Damp  started  on  the  walls,  and  as 
the  stains  came  out,  the  pictures  seemed  to  go  in  and 
secrete  themselves.  Mildew  and  mould  began  to  lurk 
in  closets.  Fungus  trees  grew  in  corners  of  the  cellars. 
Dust  accumulated,  nobody  knew  whence  nor  how  ; 
spiders,  moths,  and  grubs  were  heard  of  every  day.  An 
exploratory  black-beetle  now  and  then  was  found  im- 
movable upon  the  stairs,  or  in  an  upper  room,  as  won- 
dering how  he  got  there.  Rats  began  to  squeak  and 
scuffle  in  the  night-time,  through  dark  galleries  they 
mined  behind  the  panelling. 

The  dreary  magnificence  of  the  state  rooms,  seen 
imperfectly  by  the  doubtful  light  admitted  through 
closed  shutters,  would  have  answered  w^ell  enough  for 
an  enchanted  abode.  Such  as  the  tarnished  paws  of 
gilded  lions,  stealthily  put  out  from  beneath  their  wrap- 
pers  ; the  marble  lineaments  of  busts  on  pedestals,  fear- 
fully revealing  themselves  through  veils  ; the  clocks 
that  never  told  the  time,  or,  if  wound  up  by  any  chance, 
told  it  wrong,  and  struck  unearthly  numbers,  which  are 
not  upon  the  dial  ; the  accidental  tinklings  among  the 
pendent  lustres,  more  startling  than  alarm  bells  ; the 
softened  sounds  and  laggard  air  that  made  their  way 
among  these  objects,  and  a phantom  crowd  of  others, 
shrouded  and  hooded,  and  made  spectral  of  shape.  But, 
besides,  there  was  the  great  staircase,  where  the  lord  of 
the  place  so  rarely  set  his  foot,  and  by  which  his  little 
child  had  gone  up  to  Heaven.  There  were  other  stair- 
cases and  passages  where  no  one  went  for  weeks  togeth- 
er ; there  were  two  closed  rooms  associated  with  dead 
members  of  the  family,  and  with  whispered  recollections 
of  them ; and  to  all  the  house  but  Florence,  there  was  a 


64 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


gentle  figure. moving  tlirougli  the  solitude  and  gloomj, 
that  gave  to  every  lifeless  thing  a touch  of  present  hu- 
man interest  and  wonder. 

For  Florence  lived  alone  in  the  deserted  house,  and 
day  succeeded  day,  and  still  she  lived  alone,  and  the 
cold  walls  looked  down  upon  her  with  a vacant  stare,  as 
if  they  had  a Gtorgon-like  mind  to  stare  her  youth  and 
beauty  into  stone. 

The  grass  began  to  grow  upon  the  roof,  and  in  the 
crevices  of  the  basement  paving.  A scaly  crumbling 
vegetation  sprouted  round  the  window-sills.  Fragments 
of  mortar  lost  their  hold  upon  the  insides  of  the  unused 
chimneys,  and  came  dropping  down.  The  two  trees  with 
the  smoky  trunks  were  blighted  high  up,  and  the  with- 
ered branches  domineered  above  the  leaves.  Through 
the  whole  building,  white  had  turned  yellow,  yellow 
nearly  black  ; and  since  the  time  when  the  poor  lady 
died,  it  had  slowly  become  a dark  gap  in  the  long  mo- 
notonous street. 

But  Florence  bloomed  there,  like  the  king’s  fair 
daughter  in  the  story.  Her  books,  her  music,  and  her 
daily  teachers,  were  her  only  real  companions,  Susan 
Nipper  and  Diogenes  excepted  ; of  whom  the  former,  in 
her  attendance  on  the  studies  of  her  young  mistress,  be- 
gan to  grow  quite  learned  herself,  while  the  latter,  soft- 
ened possibly  by  the  same  influences,  would  lay  his  head 
upon  the  window-ledge,  and  placidly  open  and  shut  his 
eyes  upon  the  street,  all  through  a summer  morning  ; 
sometimes  pricking  up  his  head  to  look  with  great  sig- 
nificance after  some  noisy  dog  in  a cart,  who  was  barking 
his  way  along,  and  sometimes,  with  an  exasperated  and 
unaccountable  recollection  of  his  supposed  enemy  in  the 
neighbourhood,  rushing  to  the  door,  whence  after  a deaf- 
ening disturbance,  he  would  come  jogging  back  with  a 
ridiculous  complacency  that  belonged  to  him,  and  lay  his 
jaw  upon  the  window-ledge  again,  with  the  air  of  a dog 
who  had  done  a public  service. 

So  Florence  lived  in  her  wilderness  of  a home,  within 
the  circle  of  her  innocent  pursuits  and  thoughts,  and 
nothing  harmed  her.  She  could  go  down  to  her  father’s 
rooms  now,  and  think  of  him,  and  suffer  her  loving  heart 
humbly  to  approach  him,  without  fear  of  repulse.  She 
could  look  upon  the  objects  that  had  surrounded  him  in 
his  sorrow,  and  could  nestle  near  his  chair,  and  not  dread 
the  glance  that  she  so  well  remembered.  She  could  ren- 
der him  such  little  tokens  of  her  duty  and  service,  as 
putting  everything  in  order  for  him  with  her  own  hands, 
binding  little  nosegays  for  his  table,  changing  them  as 
one  by  one  they  withered  and  he  did  not  come  back,  pre- 
paring something  for  him  every  day,  and  leaving  some 
timid  mark  of  her  presence  near  his  usual  seat.  To-day, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


G5 


it  was  a little  painted  stand  for  Ills  watch ; to-morrow 
she  would  be  afraid  to  leave  it,  and  would  substitute 
some  other  trifle  of  her  making  not  so  likely  to  attract 
his  eye.  Waking  in  the  night,  perhaps,  she  would 
tremble  at  the  thought  of  his  coming  home  and  angrily 
rejecting  it,  and  would  hurry  down  with  slippered  feet 
and  quickly  beating  heart,  and  bring  it  away.  At  an- 
other time,  she  would  only  lay  her  face  upon  his  deskj 
and  leave  a kiss  there,  and  a tear. 

Still  no  one  knew  of  this.  Unless  the  household  found 
it  out  when  she  was  not  there — and  they  all  held  Mr. 
Dombey’s  rooms  in  awe — it  was  as  deep  a secret  in  her 
breast  as  what  had  gone  before  it.  Florence  stole  into 
those  rooms  at  twilight,  early  in  the  morning,  and  at 
times  when  meals  were  served  down-stairs.  And  al- 
though they  were  in  every  nook  the  better  and  the 
brighter  for  her  care,  she  entered  and  passed  out  as 
quietly  as  any  sunbeam,  excepting  tha^t  she  left  her  light 
behind. 

Shadowy  company  attended  Florence  up  and  down  the 
echoing  house,  and  sat  with  her  in  the  dismantled  rooms. 
As  if  her  life  were  an  enchanted  vision,  there  arose  out 
of  her  solitude  ministering  thoughts,  that  made  it  fanci- 
ful and  unreal.  She  imagined  so  often  what  her  life 
would  have  been  if  her  father  could  have  loved  her  and 
she  had  been  a favourite  child,  that  sometimes,  for  the 
moment,  she  almost  believed  it  was  so,  and,  borne  on  by 
the  current  of  that  pensive  fiction,  seemed  to  remember 
how  they  had  watched  her  brother  in  his  grave  together  ; 
how  they  had  freely  shared  his  heart  between  them  ; how 
they  were  united  in  the  dear  remembrance  of  him  ; how 
they  often  spoke  about  him  yet ; and  her  kind  father, 
looking  at  her  gently,  told  her  of  their  common  hope 
and  trust  in  God.  At  other  times  she  pictured  to 
herself  her  mother  yet  alive.  And  oh  the  happiness  of 
falling  on  her  neck,  and  clinging  to  her  with  the  love  and 
confidence  of  all  her  soul  I And  oh  the  desolation  of 
the  solitary  house  again,  with  evening  coming  on,  and 
no  one  there  ! 

But  there  was  one  thought,  scarcely  shaped  out  to  her- 
self, yet  fervent  and  strong  within  her,  that  upheld  Flor- 
ence when  she  strove,  and  filled  her  true  young  heart* 
so  sorely  tried,  with  constancy  of  purpose.  Into  her 
mind,  as  into  all  others  contending  with  the  great  afiiic . 
tion  of  our  mortal  nature,  there  had  stolen  solemn  wan-'" 
derings  and  hopes,  arising  in  the  dim  world  beyond  the 
present  life,  and  murmuring,  like  faint  music,  of  rec«» 
OOTition  in  the  far-of[  land  between  her  brother  and  her 
tmrther  : of  some  present  consciousness  in  both  of  her; 
some  love  and  commiseration  for  her  : and  some  knowl- 
edge of  her  as  she  went  her  way  upon  the  earth.  It  was 


66 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


a soothing  consolation  to  Florence  to  give  shelter  to  these 
thoughts,  until  one  day — it  was  soon  after  she  had  last 
seen  her  father  in  his  own  room,  late  at  night — the  fancy 
came  upon  her,  that,  in  werping  for  his  alienated  heart, 
she  might  stir  the  spirits  of  the  dead  against  him.  Wild, 
Weak,  childish,  as  it  may  have  been  to  think  so,  and  to 
tremble  at  the  half-formed  thought,  it  was  the  impulse 
of  her  loving  nature  ; and  from  that  hour  Florence  strove 
against  the  cruel  wound  in  her  breast,  and  tried  to  think 
ofliim  whose  hand  had  made  it  only  with  hope. 

Her  father  did  not  know — she  held  to  it  from  that  time 
— how  much  she  loved  him.  She  was  very  young,  and 
had  no  mother,  and  had  never  learned,  by  some  fault  or 
misfortune,  how  to  express  to  him  that  she  loved  him. 
She  w^ould  be  patient,  and  would  try  to  gain  that  art  in 
time,  and  win  him  to  a better  knowledge  of  his  only 
child. 

This  became  the  purpose  of  her  life.  The  morning 
siin  shone  down  upon  the  faded  house,  and  found  the 
resolution  bright  and  fresh  within  the  bosom  of  its  soli- 
tary mistress.  Through  all  the  duties  of  the  day,  it  ani- 
mated her  ; for  Florence  hoped  that  the  more  she  knew, 
and  the  more  accomplished  she  became,  the  more  glad 
he  would  he  when  he  came  to  know  and  like  her. 
Sometimes  she  wondered,  with  a swelling  heart  and 
rising  tear,  whether  she  was  proficient  enough  in  any- 
thing to  surprise  him  when  they  should  become  com- 
panions. Sometimes  she  tried  to  think  if  there  w^ere 
any  kind  of  knowledge  that  would  bespeak  his  inter- 
est more  readily  than  another.  Always  : at  her  books, 
her  music,  and  her  work  : in  her  morning  walks,  and 
in  her  nightly  prayers  : she  had  her  engrossing  aim  in 
view.  Strange  study  for  a child,  to  learn  the  road  to 
a hard  parent’s  heart  ! 

There  were  many  careless  loungers  through  the 
streets,  as  the  summer  evening  deepened  into  night, 
who  glanced  across  the  road  at  the  sombre  house,  and 
saw  the  youthful  figure  at  the  window,  such  a con- 
trast to  it,  looking  upward  at  the  stars  as  they  began 
to  shine,  who  would  have  slept  the  worse  if  they  had 
known  on  what  design  she  mused  so  stedfastly.  The 
reputation  of  the  mansion  as  a haunted  house,  would 
not  have  been  the  gayer  with  some  humble  dwellers 
elsewhere,  who  w^ere  struck  by  its  external  gloom  in 
passing  and  repassing  in  their  daily  avocations,  and  so 
named  it,  if  they  could  have  read  its  story  in  the  darkened 
face.  But  Florence  held  her  sacred  purpose,  unsus- 
pected and  unaided  : and  studied  only  how  to  bring  her 
father  to  the  understanding  that  she  loved  him,  and 
made  no  appeal  against  him,  in  any  wandering  thought. 

Thus  Florence  lived  alone  in  the  deserted  house,  and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


67 


day  succeeded  day,  and  still  she  lived  alone,  and  tlie  mo- 
notonous walls  looked  down  upon  her  witli  a stare,  as  if 
they  had  a Gorgon-like  intent  to  stare  her  youth  and 
beauty  into  stone, 

Susan  Nipper  stood  opposite  to  her  young  mistress  one 
morning,  as  she  folded  and  sealed  a note  she  had  been 
writing ; and  showed  in  her  looks  an  approving  knowl- 
edge of  its  contents. 

‘‘  Better  late  than  never,  dear  Miss  Floy,^’  said  Susan, 

and  I do  say,  that  even  a visit  to  them  old  Skettleses 
will  be  a Godsend.”  ' 

It  is  very  good  of  Sir  Barnet  and  Lady  Skettles,  Su- 
san,” returned  Florence,  with  a mild  correction  of  that 
young  lady’s  familiar  mention  of  the  family  in  question, 
‘^to  repeat  their  invitation  so  kindly.” 

Miss  Nipper,  who  was  perhaps  the  most  thorough-going 
partisan  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  who  carried  her 
partisanship  into  all  matters  great  or  small,  and  perpetu- 
ally waged  war  with  it  against  society,  screwed  up  her  lips 
and  shook  her  head,  as  a protest  against  any  recognition 
of  disinterestedness  in  the  Skettleses,  and  a plea  in  bar 
that  they  would  have  valuable  consideration  for  their 
kindness  in  the  company  of  Florence. 

“ They  know  what  they’re  about,  if  ever  people  did,’" 
murmured  Miss  Nipper,  drawing  in  her  breath,  ‘‘oh  > 
trust  them  Skettleses  for  that  1 ” 

“ I am  not  very  anxious  to  go  to  Fulham,  Susan,  I con 
fess,”  said  Florence  thoughtfully  : ‘‘  but  it  will  be  right 
to  go.  I think  it  will  be  better.” 

“Much  better,”  interposed  Susan,  vrith  another  em 
phatic  shake  of  her  head. 

“ And  so,”  said  Florence,  “ though  I would  prefer  tO' 
have  gone  when  there  was  no  one  there,  instead  of  in 
this  vacation  time,  when  it  seems  there  are  some  young 
people  staying  in  the  house,  I have  thankfully  said  yes.” 

“ For  which  1 say.  Miss  Moy,  Oh  be  ioyful ! ” returned 
Susan.  “Ah!h— hi” 

This  last  ejaculation,  with  which  Miss  Nipper  frequent- 
ly wound  up  a sentence,  at  about  that  epoch  of  time,  was 
supposed  below  the  level  of  the  hall  to  have  a general 
reference  to  Mr.  Dombey,  and  to  be  expressive  of  a yearn- 
ing in  Miss  Nipper  to  favour  that  gentleman  with  a piece 
of  her  mind.  But  she  never  explained  it ; and  it  had  in 
^consequence,  the  charm  of  mystery,  in  addition  to  the  ad 
vantage  of  the  sharpest  expression. 

“How  long  it  is  before  we  have  any  news  of  Walter, 
Susan  1”  observed  Florence,  after  a moment’s  silence^ 

“ Long  indeed.  Miss  Floy  I ” replied  her  maid.  ‘ ‘ And 
Perch  said,  when  he  came  just  now  to  see  for  letters — 
but  what  signifies  what  he  says  !”  exclaimed  Susan,  red- 
d.emng  and  breaking  off.  “ Much  he  knows  about  it 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


6B  . 

Florence  j'aised  Tier  eyes  quickly,  and  a flush  overspread 
her  face. 

If  I hadn’t,”  said  Susan  Mpper,  evidently  struggling 
with  some  latent  anxiety  and  alarm,  and  looking  full  at 
her  young  mistress,  v/hile  endeavouring  to  work  herself 
into  a state  of  resentment  with  the  unoffending  Mr. 
Perch’s  image,  "‘if  I hadn’t  more  manliness  than  that  in- 
sipidest  of  his  sex,  I’d  never  take  pride  in  my  hair  again, 
but  turn  it  up  behind  my  ears,  and  wear  coarse  caps, 
without  a bit  of  border,  until  death  released  me  from  my 
insignificance,  I may  not  be  a Amazon,  Miss  Floy,  and 
wouldn’t  so  demeau  myself  by  such  disfigurement,  but 
anyways,  I’m  not  a giver  up,  I hope.” 

‘"Give  up!  What?”  cried  Florence,  with  a face  of 
terror. 

“ Why,  nothing.  Miss,”  said  Susan.  “Good  gracious, 
nothing  ! It’s  only  that  wet  curl-paper  of  a man  Perch, 
that  any  one  might  almost  make  away  with,  with  a touch, 
and  really  it  would  be  a blessed  event  for  all  parties  if 
some  one  would  take  pity  on  him,  and  would  have  the 
goodness  ! ” 

“ Does  he  give  up  the  ship,  Susan  ? ” inquired  Florence, 
very  pale. 

No,  miss,”  returned  Susan,  “ I should  like  to  see  him 
make  so  bold  as  to  do  it  to  my  face  ! No,  miss,  but  he 
goes  on  about  some  bothering  ginger  that  Mr.  Waiter 
v/as  to  send  to  Mrs.  Perch,  and  shakes  his  dismal  head, 
and  says  he  hopes  it  may  be  coming  : any  how,  he  says, 
H can’t  come  now  in  time  for  the  intended  occasion,  but 
may  do  for  next,  which  really,”  said  Miss  Nipper,  with 
aggravated  scorn,  “puts  me  out  of  patience  with  the 
man,  for  though  I can  bear  a great  deal,  I am  not  a camel, 
neither  am  I,”  added  Susan,  after  a moment’s  considera- 
tion, “if  I know  myself,  a dromedary  neither.” 

“What  else  does  he  say,  Susan?”  inquired  Florence, 
earnestly.  “ Won’t  you  tell  me  ? ” 

“As  if  I wouldn’t  tell  you  anything.  Miss  Ploy,  and 
everything  1 ” said  Susan.  “Why  miss,  he  says  that 
there  begins  to  be  a general  talk  about  the  ship,  and  that 
they  have  never  had  a ship  on  that  voyage  half  so  long 
unheard  of,  and  that  tlie  captain’s  wife  was  at  the  ofiSce 
yesterday,  and  seemed  a little  put  out  about  it,  but  any 
one  could  say  that,  we  knew  nearly  that  before.” 

“ I must  visit  Walter’s  uncle,”  said  Florence,  hurriedly, 
-^before  I leave  home.  I will  go  and  see  him  this  morn- 
ing. Let  us  walk  there,  directly,  Susan.” 

tess  Nipper  having  nothing  to  urge  against  the  propo- 
sal, but  being  perfectly  acquiescent,  they  were  soon 
equipped,  and  in  the  streets,  and  on  their  way  towards 
the  little  Midshipman. 

The  state  of  mind  in  which  poor  Walter  had  gone  to 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


69 


Captain  Cuttle's  on  the  day  when  Brogiey  the  hrok^ 
came  into  possession,  and  when  there  seemed  to  him  to 
be  an  execution  in  the  very  steeples,  v/as  pretty  mucL  the 
same  as  that  in  which  Florence  now  took  her  w^ay  to  Un- 
cle Sohs  ; with  this  difference,  that  Florence  suffered 
the  added  pain  of  thinking  that  she  had  been,  perhaps, 
the  innocent  occasion  of  involving  Walter  in  peril,  and 
all  to  v/hom  he  was  dear,  herself  included,  in  an  agony 
of  suspense.  For  the  rest,  uncertainty  and  danger  seemed 
written  upon  everything.  The  weathercocks  on  spires 
and  housetops  were  mysterious  with  hints  of  stormy  wind, 
and  pointed,  like  so  many  ghostly  fingers,  out  to  danger- 
ous seas,  where  fragments  of  great  wrecks  were  drifting, 
perhaps,  and  helpless  men  were  rocked  upon  them  into 
a sleep  as  deep  as  the  unfathomable  waters.  When 
Florence  came  into  the  city,  and  passed  gentlemen  who 
were  talking  together,  she  dreaded  to  hear  them  speak- 
ing of  the  ship,  and  saying  it  was  lost.  Pictures  and 
prints  of  vessels  fighting  with  the  rolling  v/aves  filled  her 
with  alarm.  The  smoke  and  clouds,  though  moving  gen- 
tly, moved  too  fast  for  her  apprehensions,  and  made  her 
fear  there  was  a tempest  blowing  at  that  moment  on  the 
ocean. 

Susan  Nipper  may  or  may  not  have  been  affected  sim- 
ilarly, but  having  her  attention  much  engaged  in  strag 
gles  with  boys,  v/henever  there  w^as  any  press  of  peopl© 
— for,  between  that  grade  of  human  kind  and  herself, 
there  was  some  natural  animosity  that  invariably  broke 
out,  whenever  they  came  together — it  would  seem  that 
she  had  not  much  leisure  on  the  road  for  intellectual 
operations. 

Arriving  in  good  time  abreast  of  the  Wooden  Midship- 
man on  the  opposite  side  of  the  v/ay,  and  waiting  for  an 
opportunity  to  cross  the  street,  they  were  a little  sur- 
prised at  first  to  see,  at  the  Instrument-maker’s  door,  a 
round-headed  lad,  with  his  chubby  face  addressed  to- 
wards the  sky,  who,  as  they  looked  at  him,  suddenly 
thrust  into  his  capacious  mouth  two  fingers  of  each  hand, 
and  with  the  assistance  of  that  machinery  whistled, 
with  astonishing  shrillness,  to  some  pigeons  at  a consid- 
erable elevation  in  the  air. 

“ Mrs.  Richards’s  eldest,  miss  ! ” said  Susan,  and 
the  worrit  of  Mrs.  Richards’s  life  ! ” 

As  Polly  had  been  to  tell  Florence  of  the  resuscitated 
prospects  of  her  son  and  heir,  Florence  w^as  prepared 
for  the  meeting  : so,  a favourable  moment  presenting 
itself,  they  both  hastened  across,  without  any  further 
contemplation  of  Mrs.  Richards’s  bane.  That  sporting 
character,  unconscious  of  their  approach,  again  whistled 
with  his  utmost  might,  and  then  yelled  in  a rapture 
of  excitement,  Strays  I Whoo-oop  1 Strays  ! ” which 


70 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


identification  liad  sucli  an  effect  upon  tlie  conscience- 
stricken  pigeons,  that  instead  of  goiog  direct  to  some 
town  in  tke  north  of  England,  as  appeared  to  have  been 
their  original  Intention,  they  began  to  wheel  and  falter ; 
whereupon  Mrs.  Richards’s  first-born  pierced  them  with 
another  whistle,  and  again  yelled,  in  a voice  that  rose 
above  the  turmoil  of  the  street,  Strays  I Whoo-oop  I 
Strays  ! 

From  this  transport,  he  was  abruptly  recalled  to  ter- 
restrial objects,  by  a- poke  from  Miss  Nipper,  which  sent 
him  into  the  shop. 

Is  this  the  way  you  show  your  penitence,  when  Mrs. 
Richards  has  been  fretting  for  you  months  and  months  ! ’’ 
said  Susan,  following  the  poke.  Where’s  Mr.  Gills 

Rob,  who  smoothed  his  first  rebellious  glance  at  Miss 
Nipper  when  he  saw  Florence  following,  put  his  knuckles 
to  his  hair,  in  honour  of  the  latter,  and  said  to  the  former, 
that  Mr,  Gills  was  out. 

Fetch  him  home,'*’  said  Miss  Nipper,  with  authority, 

and  say  that  my  young  lady’s  here.” 

“ I don’t  know  where  he’s  gone,”  said  Rob. 

‘‘Is  tJiat  your  penitence?”  cried  Susan,  with  stingiiJ^ 
sharpness.” 

“ Why  how  can  I go  and  fetch  him  when  I don’t  know 
where  to  go?  ” whimpered  the  baited  Rob.  “ How  can 
you  be  so  unreasonable  ? ” 

“Did  Mr.  Gills  say  when  he  should  be  home?”  asked 
Florence. 

“Yes,  miss,”  replied  Rob,  with  another  application  of 
his  knuckles  to  his  hair.  “ He  said  he  should  be  home 
early  in  the  afternoon  ; in  about  a couple  of  hours  from 
now,  miss.” 

“Is  he  very  anxious  about  his  nephew?”  inquired 
Susan. 

“Yes,  miss,”  returned  Rob,  preferring  to  address  him- 
self to  Florence  and  slighting  Nipper  ; “I  should  say  he 
was,  very  much  so.  He  ain’t  in-doors,  miss,  not  a quar- 
ter of  an  hour  together.  He  can’t  settle  in  one  place  five 
minutes.  He  goes  about,  like  a — just  like  a stray,”  said 
Rob,  stooping  to  get  a glimpse  of  the  pigeons  through 
the  window,  and  checking  himself,  with  Ms  fingers  half- 
way to  his  mouth,  on  the  verge  of  another  whistle. 

“Do  you  know  a friend  of  Mr.  Gills,  called  Captain 
Cuttle  ?”  inquired  Florence,  after  a moment’s  reflection. 

“ Him  with  a hook,  miss?”  rejoined  Rob,  with  an  il- 
lustrative twist  of  his  left  hand.  “ Yes,  miss.  He  was 
here  the  day  before  yesterday.” 

“ Has  he  not  been  here  since  ?”  asked  Susan. 

“ No,  miss,”  returned  Rob,  still  addressing  his  reply 
to  Florence 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


71 


Perhaps  Walter’s  uncle  has  gone  there,  Susan,”  ob- 
served Florence,  turning  to  her. 

To  Captain  Cuttle’s,  miss?”  interposed  Rob  ; no, 
he’s  not  gone  there,  miss.  Because  he  left  particular 
word  that  if  Captain  Cuttle  called,  I should  tell  him  how 
surprised  he  was,  not  to  have  seen  him  j^esterday,  and 
should  make  him  stop  ’till  he  came  back.” 

Do  you  know  where  Captain  Cuttle  lives?”  asked 
Florence. 

Rob  replied  in  the  affirmative,  and  turning  to  a greasy 
parchment  book  on  the  shop  desk,  read  the  address 
aloud. 

Florence  again  turned  to  her  maid  and  took  counsel 
with  her  in  a low  voice,  while  Rob  the  round-eyed, 
mindful  of  his  patron’s  secret  charge,  looked  on  and 
listened.  Florence  proposed  that  they  should  go  to  Cap- 
tain Cuttle’s  house  ; hear  from  his  own  lips,  what  he 
thought  of  the  absence  of  any  tidings  of  the  Son  and 
Heir  ; and  bring  him,  if  they  could,  to  comfort  Uncle 
Bob  Susan  at  first  objected  slightly,  on  the  score  of 
distance  ; but  a hackney-coach  being  mentioned  by  her 
mistress,  withdrew  that  opposition,  and  gave  in  her  as- 
sent. There  were  some  minutes  of  discussion  between 
them  before  they  came  to  this  conclusion,  during  which 
the  staring  Rob  paid  close  attention  to  both  speakers, 
and  inclined  his  ear  to  each  by  turns,  as  if  he  were  ap- 
pointed arbitrator  of  the  arguments. 

In  fine,  Rob  was  despatched  for  a coach,  the  visitors 
keeping  shop  meanwhile  ; and  when  he  brought  it,  they 
got  into  it,  leaving  word  for  Uncle  Sol  that  they  would 
be  sure  to  call  again,  on  their  way  back.  Rob  having 
stared  after  the  coach  until  it  was  as  invisible  as  the 
pigeons  had  now  become,  sat  down  behind  the  desk  with 
a most  assiduous  demeanour  ; and  in  order  that  he  might 
forget  nothing  of  what  had  transpired,  made  notes  of  it 
on  various  small  scraps  of  paper,  with  a vast  expenditure 
of  ink.  There  was  no  danger  of  these  documents  be- 
traying anything,  if  accidentally  lost ; for  long  before  a 
word  was  dry,  it  became  as  profound  a mysteiy  to  Rob, 
as  if  he  had  had  no  part  whatever  in  its  production. 

While  he  was  yet  busy  with  these  labours,  the  hack- 
ney-coach, after  encountering  unheard  of  difficulties 
from  swivel-bridges,  soft  roads,  impassable  canals,  cara- 
vans of  casks,  settlements  of  scarlet -beans  and  little 
wash-houses,  and  many  such  obstacles  abounding  in  that 
country,  stopped  at  the  corner  of  Brig  Place.  Alighting 
here,  Florence  and  Susan  Nipper  walked  down  the  street, 
and  sought  out  the  abode  of  Captain  Cuttle. 

It  happened  by  evil  chance  to  be  one  of  Mrs.  MacStin- 
ger's  great  cleaning  days.  On  these  occasions,  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger  was  knocked  up  by  the  policeman  at  a quarter 


^2  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

before  three  in  the  morning,  and  rarely  succumbed  before 
twelve  o’clock  next  night.  The  chief  object  of  this  in- 
stitution appeared  to  be,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  should 
move  all  the  furniture  into  tlie  back  garden  at  early 
dawn,  walk  about  the  house  in  pPtttens  all  day,  and 
move  the  furniture  back  again  after  dark.  These  cere^ 
monies  greatly  fluttered  those  doves  the  young  Mac- 
Stingers,  who  were  not  only  unable  at  such  times  to  find 
any  resting-place  for  the  soles  of  their  feet,  but  gener- 
ally came  in  for  a good  deal  of  pecking  from  the  mater- 
nal bird  during  the  progress  of  the  solemnities. 

At  the  moment  when  Florence  and  Susan  Nipper  pre- 
sented themselves  at  Mrs.  MacStinger’s  door,  that 
worthy  but  redoubtable  female  was  in  the  act  of  convey- 
ing Alexander  MacStinger,  aged  two  years  and  three 
months,  along  the  passage  for  forcible  deposition  in  a 
sitting  posture  on  the  street  pavement ; Alexander  being 
black  in  the  face  with  holding  his  breath  after  punish- 
ment, and  a cool  paving-stone  being  usually  found  to  act 
as  a powerful  restorative  in  such  cases. 

The  feelings  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  as  a woman  and  a 
mother,  were  outraged  by  the  look  of  pity  for  Alexander 
which  she  observed  on  Florence’s  face.  Therefore,  Mrs. 
MacStinger  asserting  those  finest  emotions  of  our  nature, 
in  preference  to  weakly  gratifying  her  curiosity,  shook 
and  buffetted  Alexander  both  before  and  during  the  ap- 
plication of  the  paving-stone,  and  took  no  further  notice 
©f  the  strangers. 

I beg  your  pardon,  ma’am,”  said  Florence,  when  the 
child  had  found  his  breath  again,  and  was  using  it. 
‘"Is  this  Captain  Cuttle’s  house?” 

“ No,”  said  Mrs.  MacStinger. 

“ Not  Number  Nine  ? ” asked  Florence,  hesitating. 

“ Who  said  it  wasn’t  Number  Nine?”  said  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger. 

Susan  Nipper  instantly  struck  in,  and  begged  to  in- 
quire what  Mrs.  MacStinger  meant  by  that,  and  if  she 
knew  whom  she  was  talking  to. 

Mrs.  MacStinger  in  retort,  looked  at  her  all  over. 
“ What  do  you  want  with  Captain  Cuttle,  I should  wish 
to  know  ? ” said  Mrs.  MacStinger. 

“ Should  you?  Then  I’m  sorry  that  you  won’t  be  sat- 
isfied,” returned  Miss  Nipper. 

“Hush,  Susan!  If  you  please!”  said  FlorencCc 
“ Perhaps  you  can  have  the  goodness  to  tell  us  where 
Captain  Cuttle  lives  ma’am,  as  he  don’t  live  here.” 

“ Who  says  he  don’t  live  here  ?”  retorted  the  implac- 
able MacStinger.  “I  said  it  wasn’t  Cap’en  Cuttle’s 
house — and  it  ain’t  his  house — and  forbid  it,  that  it  ever 
should  be  his  house— for  Cap’en  Cuttle  don’t  know  how 


Dombey  and  Son,  Vol.  Twelve,  page  73. 


74 


WOKKS  OP  CHARLES  DlCKSm 


to  keep  a Louse — and  don’t  deserve  to  Lave  a Louse — it’s 
my  Louse—and  wLen  I let  tLe  upper  floor  to  Cap’en 
Cuttle,  oL  I do  a tLankless  thing,  and  cast  pearls  before 
swine  ! ” 

Mrs.  MacStinger  pitcLed  Ler  voice  for  tLe  upper  win^ 
dows  in  offering  tLese  remarks,  and  cracked  off  each 
clause  sharply  by  itself  as  if  from  a rifle  possessing  an 
infinity  of  barrels.  After  the  last  shot,  the  captain’s 
voice  was  heard  to  say,  in  feeble  remonstrance  from  his 
own  room,  Steady  below  ! ” 

Since  you  want  Cap’en  Cuttle,  there  he  is  I”  said 
Mrs.  MacStinger,  with  an  angry  motion  of  her  Land. 
On  Florence  making  bold  to  enter,  without  any  more 
parley,  and  on  Susan  following,  Mrs.  MacStinger  re- 
commenced her  pedestrian  exercise  in  pattens,  and 
Alexander  MacStinger  (still  on  the  paving-stone),  wlio 
had  stopped  in  his  crying  to  attend  to  the  conversation, 
began  to  wail  again,  entertaining  himself  during  that 
dismal  performance,  which  was  quite  mechanical,  with 
a general  survey  of  the  prospect,  terminating  in  the 
hackney-coach. 

The  captain  in  Lis  own  apartment  was  sitting  with 
Lis  hands  in  Lis  pockets  and  his  legs  drawn  up  under  his 
chair,  on  a very  small  desolate  island,  lying  about  mid- 
way in  an  ocean  of  soap  and  water.  The  Captain’s 
windows  had  been  cleaned,  the  walls  had  been  cleaned, 
the  stove  had  been  cleaned,  and  everything,  the  stove 
excepted,  was  wet,  and  shining  with  soft  soap  and  sand: 
the  smell  of  which  dry-saltery  impregnated  the  air.  In 
the  midst  of  the  dreary  scene,  the  captain  cast  away  upon 
his  island  looked  round  on  the  waste  of  waters,  with 
a rueful  countenance,  and  seemed  waiting  for  some 
friendly  bark  to  come  that  way  and  take  him  off. 

But  when  the  captain,  directing  his  forlorn  visage  to- 
wards the  door,  saw  Florence  appear  with  her  maid,  no 
words  can  describe  his  asljonishment.  Mrs.  MacStinger’s 
eloquence  Laving  rendered  all  other  sounds  but  imper- 
fectly distinguishable,  he  had  looked  for  no  rarer  visitor 
than  the  potboy  or  the  milkman  ; wherefore  when  Flor- 
ence appeared,  and  coming  to  the  confines  of  the  island, 
put  her  hand  in  his,  the  captain  stood  up,  aghast,  as  if 
he  supposed  her,  for  the  moment,  to  be  some  young 
member  of  the  Flying  Dutchman’s  family. 

Instantly  recovering  his  self-possession,  however,  the 
captain’s  first  care  was  to  place  her  on  dry  land,  which 
he  happily  accomplished,  with  one  motion  of  his  arm. 
Issuing  forth,  then,  upon  the  main,  Captain  Cuttle  took 
Miss  Nipper  round  the  waist,  and  bore  her  to  the  island 
also.  Captain  Cuttle,  then,  with  great  respect  and  ad- 
miration, raised  the  hand  of  Florence  to  Lis  lips,  and 
standing  off  a little  (for  the  island  was  not  large  enough. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


75 


for  three),  beamed  on  her  from  the  soap  and  water  like 
a new  description  of  Triton. 

‘‘  You  are  amazed  to  see  us,  I am  sure,’"  said  Florence, 
with  a smile. 

The  inexpressibly  gratified  captain  kissed  his  hook  in 
reply,  and  growled,  as  if  a choice  and  delicate  compliment 
were  included  in  the  words,  Stand  by  ! Stand  by  V 

‘‘  But  I couldn’t  rest,”  said  Florence,  without  coming 
to  ask  you  what  you  think  about  dear  Walter — who  is 
my  brother,  now— and  whether  there  is  anything  to  fear, 
and  whether  you  will  not  go  and  console  his  poor  uncle 
every  day,  until  we  have  some  intelligence  of  him  ? ’’ 

At  these  words  Captain  Cuttle,  as  by  an  involuntary 
gesture,  clapped  his  hand  to  his  head,  on  which  the  hard 
glazed  hat  was  not,  and  looked  discomfited. 

'"Have  you  any  fears  for  Walter’s  safety?”  inquired 
Florence,  from  whose  face  the  captain  (so  enraptured  he 
was  with  it)  could  not  take  his  eyes  ; while  she,  in  her 
turn,  looked  earnestly  at  him,  to  be  assured  of  the  sin- 
cerity of  his  reply. 

""  No,  Heart’s-delight,”  said  Captain  Cuttle,  ""  I am  not 
afeard.  WaTr  is  a lad  as’ll  go  through  a deal  o’  hard 
weather.  Wal’r  is  a lad  as’ll  bring  as  much  success  to 
that  ’ere  brig  as  a lad  is  capable  on.  Wal’r,”  said  the 
captain,  his  eyes  glistening  with  the  praise  of  his  young 
friend,  and  his  hook  raised  to  announce  a beautiful 
quotation,  ""  is  what  you  may  call  a out’ard  and  visible 
sign  of  a in’ard  and  spirited  grasp,  and  when  found  make 
a note  of.” 

Florence,  who  did  not  quite  understand  this,  though  • 
the  captain  thought  it  full  of  meaning  and  highly  satis- 
factory, mildly  looked  to  him  for  something  more. 

‘"i  am  not  afeard,  my  Heart’s  delight,”  resumed 
the  captain  ""  There’s  been  most  uncommon  bad  weather 
in  them  latitudes,  there’s  no  denyin,  and  they  have 
drove  and  drove  and  been  beat  ofi,  may  be  the  t’other 
side  the  world.  But  the  ship’s  a good  ship,  and  the 
lad’s  a good  IM  ; and  it  ain’t  easy,  thank  the  Lord,” 
the  captain  made  a little  bow,  "to  break  up  hearts  of 
oak,  whether  they’re  in  brigs  or  buzz  urns.  Here  we 
have  ’em  both  ways,  wkich  is  bringing  it  up  with  a round 
turn,  and  so  I ain’t  a bit  afeard  as  yet,” 

" As  yet  ?”  repeated  Florence. 

"Not  a bit,”  returned  the  captain,  kissing  his  iron 
hand;  ""and  afore  I begin  to  be,  my  Heart’s-delight, 
Wal’r  will  have  wrote  home  from  the  island,  or  from 
some  port  or  another,  and  made  all  taut  and  ship-shape. 
And  with  regard  to  old  Sol  Gills,”  here  the  captain  became 
solemn,  ""  who  I’ll  stand  by,  and  not  desert  until  death 
doe  us  part,  and  when  the  stormy  winds  do  blow,  do 
blow,  do  blow — overhaul  the  Catechism,”  said  the  cap- 


76 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tain  parenthetically,  and  there  jeon'll  find  th^m  ex. 
pressions — if  it  would  console  Sol  Gills  to  have  tho 
opinion  of  a seafaring  man  as  has  got  a mind  equal  to  any 
undertaking  that  he  puts  it  alongside  of,  and  as  was  all 
but  smashed  in  his  'prenticeship,  and  of  which  the  name 
is  Bunsby,  that  ’ere  man  shall  give  him  such  an  opinion 
in  his  own  parlour  as’ll  stun  him.  Ah  ! ” said  Captain 
Cuttle,  vauntingly,  “"as  much  as  if  he’d  gone  and 
knocked  his  head  again  a door  ! ” 

'^Let  us  take  this  gentleman  to  see  him,  and  let  us 
hear  what  he  says,”  cried  Florence.  **  Will  you  go  with 
us  now  ? We  have  a coach  here.” 

Again  the  captain  clapped  his  hand  to  his  head,  on 
which  the  hard  glazed  hat  was  not,  and  Idoked  discom- 
fited. But  at  this  instant  a most  remarkable  phenom- 
enon occurred.  The  door  opening,  without  any  note  of 
preparation,  and  apparently  of  itself,  the  hard  glazed 
hat  in  question  skimmed  into  the  room  like  a bird,  and 
alighted  heavily  at  the  captain’s  feet.  The  door  then 
shut  as  violently  as  it  had  opened,  and  nothing  ensued 
in  explanation  of  the  prodigy. 

Captain  Cuttle  picked  up  his  hat  and  having  turned  it 
over  with  a look  of  interest  and  welcome,  began  to  pol- 
ish it  on  his  sleeve.  While  doing  so  the  captain  eyed 
his  visitors  intently,  and  said  in  a low  voice  : 

You  see  I should  have  bore  down  on  Sol  Gills  yes- 
terday, and  this  morning,  but  she — she  took  it  away  and 
kept  it.  That’s  the  long  and  short  of  the  subject.” 

“Who  did,  for  goodness  sake?”  asked  Susan  Nipper. 

* “ The  lady  of  the  house,  my  dear,”  returned  the  cap- 

tain, in  a gruff  whisper,  and  making  signals  of  secrecy. 
“We  had  some  words  about  the  swabbing  of  these  her© 
planks,  and  she — in  short,”  said  the  captain,  eyeing  the 
door,  and  relieving  himself  with  a long  breath,  “she 
stopped  my  liberty.” 

“Oh  ! I wish  she  had  me  to  deal  with  ! ” said  Susan, 
reddening  with  the  energy  of  the  wish.  “I’d  stop 
her  ! ” 

“Would  you,  do  you  think,  my  dear?”  rejoined  the 
captain,  shaking  his  head  doubtfully,  but  regarding  the 
desperate  courage  of  the  fair  aspirant  with  obvious  ad- 
miration. “I  don’t  know.  It’s  difficult  navigation. 
She’s  very  hard  to  carry  on  with,  my  dear.  You  never 
can  tell  how  she’ll  head,  you  see.  She’s  full  one  minute, 
and  round  upon  you  next.  And  when  she  is  a tartar,” 
said  the  captain,  with  the  perspiration  breaking  out 
upon  his  forehead — . There  was  nothing  but  a whistle 
emphatic  enough  for  the  conclusion  of  the  sentence,  so 
the  captain  whistled  tremulously.  After  which  he  again 
shook  his  head,  and  recurring  to  his  admiration  of  Miss 


J30MBEY  . ND  SON. 


77 


Nipper’s  devoted  bravery,  timidly  repeated,  ‘‘Would 
you,  do  you  tliink,  my  dear  ? ” 

Susan  only  replied  with  a bridling  smile,  but  that 
was  so  very  fuil  of  defiance,  that  there  is  no  knowing 
how  long  Captain  Cuttle  might  have  stood  entranced  in 
its  contemplation,  if  Florence  in  her  anxiety  had  not 
again  proposed  their  immediately  resorting  to  the  oracu- 
lar Bunsby.  Thus  reminded  of  his  duty.  Captain  Cut- 
tie  put  on  the  glazed  hat  firmly,  took  up  another  knobby 
stick  with  which  he  had  supplied  the  place  of  that  on© 
given  to  Walter,  and  offering  his  arm  to  Florence,  pre- 
pared to  cut  his  way  through  the  enemy. 

It  turned  out,  however,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  had  al- 
ready changed  her  course,  and  that  she  headed,  as  the 
captain  had  remarked  she  often  did,  in  quite  a new  di- 
rection. For  when  they  got  down-stairs,  they  found  that 
exemplary  woman  beating  the  mats  on  the  door  steps, 
with  Alexander,  still  upon  the  paving-stone,  dimly  loom- 
ing through  a fog  of  dust  ; and  so  absorbed  was  Mrs. 
MacStinger  in  her  household  occupation,  that  when  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  and  his  visitors  passed,  she  beat  the  harder, 
and  neither  by  word  or  gesture  showed  any  conscious- 
ness of  their  vicinity.  The  captain  was  so  well  pleased 
with  this  easy  escape — although  the  effect  of  the  door- 
mats on  him  was  like  a copious  administration  of  snuff, 
and.  made  him  sneeze  until  the  tears  ran  down  his  face 
—that  he  could  hardly  believe  his  good  fortune  ; but 
more  than  once,  between  the  door  and  the  hackney- 
coach,  looked  over  his  shoulder  with  an  obvious  appre- 
hension of  Mrs.  MacStingeFs  giving  chase  yet. 

However,  they  got  to  the  jcorner  of  Brig  Place  without 
any  molestation  from  that  terrible  fire-ship  ; and  the 
captain  mounting  the  coach  box — for  his  gallantry  would 
not  allow  him  to  ride  inside  with  the  ladies,  though  be- 
sought to  do  so — piloted  the  driver  on  his  course  for 
Captain  Bunsby ’s  vessel,  which  was  called  the  Cautious 
Clara,  and  was  lying  hard  by  Ratcliffe. 

Arrived  at  the  wharf  off  which  this  great  comman- 
der’s ship  was  jammed  in  among  the  some  five  hundred 
companions,  whose  tangled  rigging  looked  like  mons- 
trous cobwebs  half  swept  down.  Captain  Cuttle  appeared 
at  the  coach  window,  and  invited  Florence  and  Miss 
Nipper  to  accompany  him  on  board ; observing  that 
Bunsby  was  to  the  last  degree  soft-hearted  in  respect  of 
ladies,  and  that  nothing  would  so  much  tend  to  bring 
his  expansive  intellect  into  a state  of  harmony  as  their 
presentation  to  the  Cautious  Clara. 

Florence  readily  consented  ; and  the  captain,  taking 
her  little  hand  in  his  prodigious  palm,  led  her,  with  a 
mixed  expression  of  patronage,  paternity,  pride,  and 
ceremony,  that  v/as  pleasant  to  see,  over  several  very 


78 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


dirty  decks,  until,  coming  to  tbe  Clara,  tkey  found  tliat 
cautious  craft  (wliich  lay  outside  the  tier)  with  her  gang- 
way removed,  and  half  a dozen  feet  of  river  interposed 
between  herself  and  her  nearest  neighbour.  It  appeared, 
from  Captain  Cuttle’s  explanation,  that  the  great  Bunsby, 
like  himself,  was  cruelly  treated  by  his  landlady,  and 
that  when  her  usage  of  him  for  the  timfe  being  was  so 
hard  that  he  could  bear  it  no  longer,  he  set  this  gulf  be- 
tween them  as  a last  resource. 

‘ ' Clara  a-hoy  ! ” cried  the  captain,  putting  a hand  to 
each  side  of  his  mouth. 

‘"A-hoy  k’  cried  a boy,  like  the  captain’s  echo,  tum- 
bling up  from  below. 

“Bunsby  aboard  ? ” cried  the  captain,  hailing  the  boy 
in  a stentorian  voice,  as  if  he  were  half-a-mile  off  in- 
stead of  two  yards. 

“ Aye,  aye  ! ” cried  the  boy,  in  the  same  tone. 

The  boy  then  shoved  out  a plank  to  Captain  Cuttle, 
who  adjusted  it  carefully,  and  led  Florence  across  : re- 
turning presently,  for  Miss  Nipper.  So  they  stood  upon 
the  deck  of  the  Cautious  Clara,  in  whose  standing  rig- 
ging, divers  fluttering  articles  of  dress  wera  curing,  in 
company  with  a few  tongues  a,nd  some  mackerel. 

Immediately  there  appeared,  coming  slowly  up  above 
the  bulk-head  of  the  cabin,  another  bulk-head — ^human 
and  very  large — with  one  stationary  eye  in  the  mahogany 
face,  and  one  revolving  one,  on  the  principle  of  some 
lighthouses.  This  head  was  decorated  with  shaggy  hair, 
like  oakum,  which  had  no  governing  inclination  towards 
the  north,,  east,  west,  or  south,  but  inclined  to  all  four 
quarters  of  the  compass,  aiKl  to  every  point  upon  it. 
The  head  was  followed  by  a perfect  desert  of  chin,  and 
by  a shirt-collar  and  a neckerchief,  and  by  a dreadnought 
pilot-coat,  and  by  a pair  of  dreadnought  pilot-trousers, 
whereof  the  waistband  was  so  very  broad  and  high, 
that  it  become  a succedaneum  for  a waistcoat : being 
ornamented  near  the  wearer’s  breast-bone  with  some 
massive  wooden  buttons,  like  backgammon  men.  As 
the  lower  portions  of  these  pantaloons  became  revealed, 
Bunsby  stood  confessed  ; his  hands  in  their  pockets, 
which  were  of  vast  size  ; and  his  gaze  directed,  not  to 
Caj)tain  Cuttle  or  the  ladies,  but  the  mast-head. 

The  profound  appearance  of  this  philosopher,  who 
was  bulky  and  strong,  and  on  whose  extremely  red  face 
an  expression  of  taciturnity  sat  enthroned,  not  inconsis- 
tent with  his  character,  in  which  that  quality  was 
proudly  conspicuous,  almost  daunted  Captain  Cuttle, 
though  on  familiar  terms  with  him.  Whispering  to 
Florence  that  Bunsby  had  never  in  his  life  expressed 
surprise,  and  was  considered  not  to  know  what  it  meant, 
the  captain  watched  him  as  be  eyed  his  mast-head,  and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


79 


afterwards  swept  the  horizon  ; and  when  the  revolving 
eye  seemed  to  be  coming  round  in  his  direction,  said  : 

Bunsby,  my  lad,  how  fares  it  ? ’’ 

A deep,  gruff,  husky  utterance,  which  seemed  to  have 
no  connection  with  Bunsby,  and  certainly  had  not  the 
least  effect  upon  his  face,  replied  Aye,  aye,  shipmet, 
how  goes  it  ! ’’ 

At  the  same  time,  Bunsby’s  right  hand  and  arm, 
emerging  from  a pocket,  shook  the  captain's,  and  went 
back  again. 

“ Bunsby,"  said  the  captain,  striking  home  at  once, 

here  you  are  ; a man  of  mind,  and  a man  as  can  give 
an  opinion.  Here's  a young  lady  as  wants  to  take  that 
opinion,  in  regard  of  my  friend  Wal'r  ; likewise  my 
t’other  friend,  Sol  Gills,  which  is  a character  for  you  to 
come  within  hail  of,  being  a man  of  science,  which  is 
the  mother  of  inwention,  and  knows  no  law.  Bunsby, 
will  you  wear,  to  oblige  me,  and  come  along  with  us  ? " 

The  great  commander,  who  seemed  by  the  expression 
of  his  visage  to  be  always  on  the  look-out  for  something 
in  the  extremest  distance,  and  to  have  no  ocular  know- 
ledge of  anything  within  ten  miles,  made  no  reply  what- 
ever. 

Here  is  a man,"  said  the  captain,  addressing  himself 
to  his  fair  auditors,  and  indicating  the  commander  with 
his  outstretched  hook,  “that  has  fell  down  more  than 
any  man  alive  ; that  has  had  more  accidents  happen  to 
his  own  self  than  the  Seaman's  Hospital  to  all  hands  ; 
that  took  as  many  spars  and  bars  and  bolts  about  the 
outside  of  his  head  when  he  was  young,  as  you'd  want 
a order  for  on  Chatham -yard  to  built  a pleasure-yacht 
with  ; and  yet  that  got  his  opinions  in  that  way,  it’s 
my  belief,  for  there  an't  nothing  like  'em  afloat  or 
ashore." 

The  stolid  commander  appeared,  by  a very  slight  vib- 
ration in  his  elbov/s,  to  express  some  satisfaction  in  this 
encomium  ; but  if  his  face  had  been  as  distant  as  his 
gaze  was,  it  could  hardly  have  enlightened  the  beholders 
less  in  reference  to  anything  that  was  passing  in  his 
thoughts. 

“ Shipmet,"  said  Bunsby,  all  of  a sudden,  and  stooping 
down  to  look  out  under  some  interposing  spar,  “ what’ll 
the  ladies  drink  ? " 

Captain  Cuttle,  whv?«e  delicacy  was  shocked  by  such 
an  inquiry  in  connection  with  Florence,  drew  the  sage 
aside,  and  seeming  to  explain  in  his  ear,  accompanied 
him  below ; where,  that  he  might  not  take  offence,  the 
captain  drank  a dram  himself,  which  Florence  and  Susan, 
glancing  down  the  open  skylight,  saw  the  sage,  with 
difliculty  finding  room  for  himself  between  his  berth  and 
a very  little  brass  fire-place,  serve  out  for . self  and 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


friend.  They  soon  reappeared  on  deck,  and  Captain  Cut- 
tie,  triumpliing  in  the  success  of  his  enterprise,  conducted 
Florence  back  to  the  coach,  while  Bunsby  followed,  esr 
corting  Miss  Nipper,  whom  he  hugged  upon  the  way 
(much  to  that  young  lady^s  indignation)  with  his  pilots 
coated  arm,  like  a blue  bear. 

The  captain  put  his  oracle  inside,  and  gloried  so  much 
in  having  secured  him,  and  having  got  that  mind  into  q 
hac-iney-coach,  thathe  could  not  retain  from  often  peep- 
ing in  at  Florence  through  the  little  window  behind  the 
driver,  and  testifying  his  delight  in  smiles,  and  also  in 
taps  upon  his  forehead,  to  hint  to  her  that  the  brain  of 
Bunsby  was  hard  at  it.  In  the  meantime,  Bunsby,  still 
hugging  Miss  Nipper  (for  his  friend,  the  captain,  had 
not  exaggerated  the  softness  of  his  heart),  uniformly 
preser^^ed  his  gravity  of  deportment,  and  showed  no  other 
consciousness  of  her  or  anything.  \ 

Uncle  Sol,  who  had  come  home,  received  them  at  the 
door,  and  ushered  them  immediately  into  the  little  back- 
parlour  : strangely  altered  by  the  absence  of  Walter. 
On  the  table,  and  about  the  room,  were  the  charts  and 
maps  on  which  the  heavy-hearted  Instrument-maker  had 
again  and  again  tracked  the  missing  vessel  across  the 
sea,  and  on  which,  with  a pair  of  compasses  that  he  still 
had  in  his  hand,  he  had  been  measuring,  a minute 
before,  how  far  she  must  have  driven,  to  have  driven 
here  or  there  : and  trying  to  demonstrate  that  a long 
time  must  elapse  before  hope  was  exhausted. 

“ Whether  she  can  have  run,^’  said  Uncle  Sol,  looking 
wistfully  over  the  chart ; bat  no,  that^s  almost  impos- 
sible. Or  whether  she  can  have  been  forced  by  stress 
of  weather, — but  that's  not  reasonably  likely.  Or 
whether  there  is  any  hope  she  so  far  changed  her  course 
as — but  even  I can  hardly  hope  that  ! " With  such 
broken  suggestions,  poor  old  Uncle  Sol  roamed  over  the 
great  sheet  before  him,  and  could  not  find  a speck  of  hope- 
ful probability  in  it  large  enough  to  set  one  small  point 
of  the  compasses  upon. 

Florence  saw  immediately — it  would  have  been  diffi- 
cult to  help  seeing — that  there  was  a singular  indescrib- 
able change  in  the  old  man,  and  that  while  his  manner 
was  far  more  restless  and  unsettled  than  usual,  there  was 
yet  a curious,  contradictory  decision  in  it,  that  perplexed 
her  very  much.  She  fancied  once  that  he  spoke  wildly, 
and  at  random  ; for  on  her  saying  she  regretted  not  to 
have  seen  him  when  she  had  been  there  before  that 
morning,  he  at  first  replied  that  he  had  been  to  see  her, 
and  directly  afterwards  seemed  to  wish  to  recall  that 
answer. 

*‘You  have  been  to  see  me?”  said  Florence,  “To- 
day?" 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


81 


‘"Yes,  my  dear  young  lady/’  returned  Uncle  Sol,  look- 
ing at  her  and  away  from  her  in  a confused  manner. 
**  I wished  to  see  you  with  my  own  eyes,  and  to  hear 
you  with  my  own  ears,  once  more  before — ’’  There  he 
stopped. 

Before  when  ? Before  what  ? said  Florence,  putting 
her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

“ Did  I say  " before?' replied  Old  Sol.  “ If  I did,  I 
must  have  meant  before  we  should  have  news  of  my 
dear  boy.” 

You  are  not  well,”  said  Florence,  tenderly.  “ You 
have  been  so  very  anxious.  I am  sure  you  are  not 
well.” 

“ I am  as  well,”  returned  the  old  man,  shutting  up  his 
right  hand,  and  holding  it  out  to  show  her  : “as  well 
and  firm  as  any  man  at  my  time  of  life  can  hope  to  be. 
See  ! It's  steady.  Is  its  master  not  as  capable  of  resolu- 
tion and  fortitude  as  many  a younger  man  ? I think  so. 
We  shall  see.” 

There  was  that  in  his  manner  more  than  in  his  words, 
though  they  remained  with  her  too,  which  impressed 
Florence  so  much,  that  she  would  have  confided  her  un- 
easiness to  Captain  Cuttle  at  that  moment,  if  the  captain 
had  not  seized  that  moment  for  expounding  the  state  of 
circumstances  on  which  the  opinion  of  the  sagacious 
Bunsby  was  requested,  and  entreating  that  profound 
authority  to  deliver  the  same. 

Bunsby,  whose  eye  continued  to  be  addressed  to  some- 
where about  the  half-way  house  between  London  and 
Gravesend,  two  or  three  times  put  out  his  rough  right 
arm,  as  seeking  to  wind  it  for  inspiration,  round  the  fair, 
form  of  Miss  Nipper  ; but  that  young  female  having 
withdrawn  herself,  in  displeasure,  to  the  opposite  side  of 
the  table,  the  soft  heart  of  the  commander  of  the  Cautious 
Clara  met  with  no  response  to  its  impulses.  After  sun- 
dry failures  in  this  wise,  the  commander,  addressing  him- 
self to  nobody,  thus  spake  ; or  rather  the  voice  within 
him  said  of  its  own  accord,  and  quite  independent  of 
himself,  as  if  he  were  possessed  by  a gruff  spirit  ; 

“ My  name's  Jack  Bunsby  ! ” 

“He  was  christened  John,”  cried  the  delighted  Cap- 
tian  Cuttle.  “ Hear  him  ! ” 

“And  w^hat  I says,”  pursued  the  voice,  after  some  de- 
liberation, “ I stands  to.” 

The  captain,  with  Florence  on  his  arm,  nodded  at  the 
auditory,  and  seemed  to  say,  “ Now  he's  coming  out. 
This  is  what  I meant  when  I brought  him.” 

“ Whereby,”  proceeded  the  voice,  “ why  not  ? If  so, 
what  odds  ? Can  any  man  say  otherwise  ? No.  Awast 
then  ! ” 

When  it  had  pursued  its  train  of  argument  to  this 


82 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


point,  tlie  voice  stopped  and  rested.  It  then  proceeded 
very  slowly,  thus  : 

"‘Do  I believe  that  this  here  Son  and  Heir’s  gone 
down,  my  lads  ? Mayhap.  Do  I say  so  ? Which  ? If 
a skipper  stands  out  by  Sen’  George’s  Channel,  making 
for  the  Downs,  what’s  right  ahead  of  him  ? The  Good- 
wins. He  isn’t  forced  to  run  upon  the  Goodwins,  but  he 
may.  The  bearings  of  this  observation  lays  in  the  appli- 
cation on  it.  That  an’''i,  no  part  of  my  duty.  Awast 
then,  keep  a bright  look-out  for’ard,  and  good  luck  to 
you  !” 

The  voice  here  went  out  of  the  back  parlour  and  into 
the  street,  taking  the  commander  of  the  Cautious  Clara 
with  it,  and  accompanying  him  on  board  again  with  all 
convenient  expedition,  where  he  immediately  turned  in, 
and  refreshed  his  mind  with  a nap. 

The  students  of  the  sage’s  precepts,  left  to  their  own 
application  of  his  wisdom — upon  a principle  which  was 
the  main  leg  of  the  Bunsby  tripod,  as  it  is  perchance  of 
some  other  oracular  stools — looked  at  one  another  in  a 
little  uncertainty  ; while  Rob  the  Grinder,  who  had  taken 
the  innocent  freedom  of  peering  in, and  listening, through 
the  skylight  in  the  roof,  came  softly  down  from  the 
leads,  in  a state  of  very  dense  confusion.  Captain  Cut- 
tie,  however,  whose  admiration  of  Bunsby  was,  if  possi- 
ble, en chanced  by  the  splendid  manner  in  which  he  had 
Justified  his  reputation  and  come  through  this  solemn 
reference, proceeded  to  explain  that  Bunsby  meant  noth- 
ing but  confidence  ; that  Bunsby  had  no  misgivings  ; 
and  that  such  an  opinion  as  that  man  had  given,  coming 
from  such  a mind  as  his,  was  Hope’s  own  anchor,  and  with 
good  roads  to  cast  it  in.  Florence  endeavored  to  believe 
that  the  captain  was  right ; but  the  Nipper,  with  her 
arms  tight  folded,  shook  her  head  in  resolute  denial, 
and  had  no  more  trust  in  Bunsby  than  in  Mr.  Perch 
himself. 

The  philosopher  seemed  to  have  left  Uncle  Sol  pretty 
much  where  he  had  found  him,  for  he  still  went  roam- 
ing about  the  watery  world,  compasses  in  hand,  and  dis- 
covering no  rest  for  them.  It  was  in  pursuance 
of  a whisper  in  his  ear  from  Florence,  while  the  old 
man  was  absorbed  in  this  pursuit,  that  Captain  Cuttle 
laid  his  heavy  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

“ What  cheer,  Sol  Gills?”  cried  the  captain,  heartily. 

“But  so-so,  Ned,”  returned  the  Instrument-maker. 
“ I have  been  remembering,  all  this  afternoon,  that  on 
the  very  day  when  my  boy  entered  Dombey’s  house,  and 
came  home  late  to  dinner,  sitting  just  there  where  yoa 
stand,  we  talked  of  storm  and  shipwreck,  and  I could 
hardly  turn  him  from  the  subject.” 

But  meeting  the  eyes  of  Florence,  which  \v  ere  fixed 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


83 


with  earnest  scrutiny  upon  Ms  face,  the  old  man  stopped 
and  smiled. 

''Stand  by,  old  friend  !”  cried  the  captain.  "Look 
alive  ! I tell  you  what,  Sol  Gills  ! arter  I’ve  con- 
voyed Heart’s-delight  safe  home,”  here  the  captain  kissed 
his  hook  to  Florence,  " I’ll  come  back  and  take  you  in 
tow  for  this  rest  of  this  blessed  day.  You’ll  come  and  eat 
your  dinner  along  with  me,  Sol,  somewheres  or  other. 

" Not  to-day,  Ned  ! ” said  the  old  man  quickly,  and 
appearing  to  be  unaccountably  startled  by  the  proposi- 
tion. "Not  to-day.  I couldn’t  do  it ! ” 

" Why  not  ?”  returned  the  captain,  gazing  at  him  in 
astonishment. 

" I — I have  so  much  to  do.  I — mean  to  think  of,  and 
arrange.  I couldn’t  do  it,  Ned,  indeed.  I must  go  out 
again,  and  be  alone,  and  turn  my  mind  to  many  things 
to-day.  ” 

The  captain  looked  at  the  Instrument-maker,  and 
looked  at  Florence,and  again  at  then  Instrument-maker. 
"To-morrow,  then,”  he  suggested  at  last. 

" Yes,  yes.  To-morrow,”  said  the  old  man.  "Think 
of  me  to-morrow.  Say  to-morrow.” 

" I shall  come  here  early,  mind,  Sol  Gills,”  stipulated 
the  old  captain. 

" Yes,  yes.  The  first  thing  to-morrow  morning,”  said 
old  Sol  : " and  now  good-bye,  Ned  Cuttle,  and  God  bless 
you  I ” 

Squeezing  both  the  captain’s  hands,  with  uncommon 
fervour,  as  he  said  it,  the  old  man  turned  to  Florence, 
folded  hers  in  his  own,  and  put  them  to  his  lips  ; then 
hurried  her  out  to  the  coach  with  a very  singular  pre= 
cipitation.  Altogether,  he  made  such  an  effect  on  Cap» 
tain  Cuttle  that  the  captain  lingered  behind,  and  in- 
structed Rob  to  be  particularly  gentle  and  attentive  to 
his  master  until  the  morning  : which  injunction  he 
strengthened  with  one  shilling  down,  and  the  promise  of 
another  sixpence  before  noon  the  next  day.  This  kind 
office  performed,  Captain  Cuttle,  who  considered  himself 
the  natural  and  lawful  body-guard  of  Florence,  mounted 
the  box  with  a mighty  sense  of  his  trust, and  escorted  her 
home.  At  parting,  he  assured  her  that  he  would  stand 
by  old  Sol  Gills,  close  and  true  ; and  once  again  inquired 
of  Susan  Nipper,  unable  to  forget  her  gallant  words  in 
reference  to  Mrs.  MacStinger,  " Would  you,  do  you 
think,  my  dear,  though  I ” 

When  the  desolate  house  had  closed  upon  the  two^  the 
captain' s thoughts  reverted  to  the  old  Instrument-maker, 
and  he  felt  uncomfortable.  Therefore,  instead  of  going 
home,  he  walked  up  and  down  the  street  several  times, 
and,  eking  out  his  leisure  until  evening,  dined  late  at  a 
certain  angular  little  tavern  in  the  city,  with  a public 


84 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


parlonr  like  a wedge,  to  which  glazed  hats  much  resort- 
ed. The  captain’s  principal  intention  was  to  pass  Sol 
Gills’s  after  dark,  and  look  in  tliTOugh  the  window  ; 
which  he  did.  The  parlour  door  stood  open,  and  he 
could  see  his  old  friend  writing  busily  and’  steadily  at 
the  table  within,  while  the  little  Midshipman,  already 
sheltered  from  the  night  dews,  watched  him  from  the 
counter ; under  which  Rob  the  Grinder  made  his  own 
bed,  preparatory  to  shutting  the  shop.  Re-assured  by 
the  tranquillity  that  reigned  within  the  precincts  of  the 
wooden  mariner,  the  captain  headed  for  Brig-place,  re- 
solving to  weigh  anchor  betimes  in  the  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

The  Study  of  a Loving  Heart. 

Sir  Barnet  and  Lady  Skettles,  very  good  people,  re- 
sided in  a pretty  villa  at  Fulham,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Thames  ; which  was  one  of  the  most  desirable  residences 
in  the  world  when  a rowing-match  happened  to  be  going 
past,  but  had  its  little  inconveniences  at  other  times, 
among  which  may  be  enumerated  the  occasional  appear- 
ance of  the  river  in  the  drawing- room,  and  the  contem- 
poraneous disappearance  of  the  lawn  and  shrubbery. 

Sir  Barnet  Skettles  expressed  his  personal  consequence 
chiefly  through  an  antique  gold  snuff-box,  and  a ponder- 
ous silk  pocket-handkerchief,  which  he  had  an  imposing 
manner  of  drawing  out  of  his  pocket  like  a banner,  and 
using  with  both  hands  at  once.  Sir  Barnet’s  object  in 
life  was  constantly  to  extend  the  range  of  his  acquaint- 
ance. Like  a heavy  body  dropped  into  water — ^not  to 
disparage  so  worthy  a gentleman  by  the  comparison — it 
was  in  the  nature  of  things  that  Sir  Barnet  must  spread 
an  ever- widening  circle  about  him,  until  there  was,  no 
room  left.  Or,  like  a sound  in  air,  the  vibration  of 
which,  according  to  the  speculation  of  an  ingenious 
modern  philosopher,  may  go  on  travelling  for  ever 
through  the  interminable  fields  of  space,  nothing  but 
coming  to  the  end  of  his  moral  tether  could  stop  Sir 
Barnet  Skettles  in  his  voyage  of  discovery  through  the 
social  system. 

Sir  Barnet  was  proud  of  making  people  acquainted 
with  people.  He  liked  the  thing  for  its  own  sake,  and 
it  advanced  his  favourite  object  too.  For  example,  if 
Sir  Barnet  had  the  good  fortune  to  get  hold  of  a raw’'  re- 
emit,  or  a country  gentleman,  and  ensnared  him  to  his 
hospitable  villa.  Sir  Barnet  would  say  to  him,  on  the 
morning.after  his  arrival,  '^'Now,  my  dear  sir,  is  there 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


85 


anybody  yon  would  like  to  know?  Who  is  there  you 
wish  to  meet  ? Do  you  take  any  interest  in  writing  peo- 
ple, or  in  painting  or  sculpturing  people,  or  in  anything 
of  that  sort?’’  Possibly  the  patient  answered  yes,  and 
mentioned  somebody,  of  whom  Sir  Barnet  had  no  more 
personal  knowledge  than  of  Ptolemy  the  Great.  Sir 
Barnet  replied,  that  nothing  on  earth  was  easier,  as  he 
knew  him  very  well  : immediately  called  on  the  afore- 
said somebody,  left  his  card,  wrote  a short  note, — ‘‘My 
dear  Sir — penalty  of  your  eminent  position — friend  at 
my  house  naturally  desires — Lady  Skettles  and  myself 
participate — trust  that  genius  being  superior  to  ceremo- 
nies, you  will  do  us  the  distinguished  favour  of  giving 
us  the  pleasure,  &c.  &c. — and  so  kill  a brace  of  birds  with 
one  stone,  dead  as  door-nails. 

With  the  snuff-box  and  banner  in  full  force,  Sir  Bar- 
net  Skettles  propounded  his  usual  inquiry  to  Florence  on 
the  first  morning  of  her  visit.  When  Florence  thanked 
him,  and  said  there  was  no  one  in  particular  whom  she 
desired  to  see,  it  was  natural  she  should  think  with  a 
pang  of  poor  lost  Walter.  When  Sir  Barnet  Skettles, 
urging  his  kind  offer,  said,  “ My  dear  Miss  Dombey,  are 
you  sure  you  can  remember  no  one  on  whom  your  good 
papa— to  whom  I beg  you  to  present  the  best  compli- 
ments of  myself  and  Lady  Skettles  when  you  write — 
might  wish  you  to  know?”  it  was  natural,  perhaps,  that 
her  poor  head  should  droop  a little,  and  that  her  voice 
should  tremble  as  it  softly  answered  in  the  negative. 

Skettles  j unior,  much  stiffened  as  to  his  cravat,  and 
sobered  down  as  to  his  spirits,  was  at  home  for  the  holi- 
days, and  appeared  to  feel  himself  aggrieved  by  the 
solicitude  of  his  excellent  mother  that  he  should  be  at- 
tentive to  Florence.  Another  and  a deeper  injury  under 
which  the  soul  of  young  Barnet  chafed,  was  the  com- 
pany of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Blimber,  who  had  been  invited  on 
a visit  to  the  parental  roof  tree,  and  of  whom  the  young 
gentleman  often  said  he  would  have  preferred  their 
passing  the  vacation  at  Jericho. 

“ Is  there  anybody  you  can  suggest,  now.  Doctor 
Blimber?”  said  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  turning  to  that 
gentleman. 

“You  are  very  kind.  Sir  Barnet,”  returned  Doctor 
Blimber.  “ Really  I am  not  aware  that  there  is,  in  par- 
ticular. I like  to  know  my  fellow  men  in  general.  Sir 
Barnet.  What  does  Terence  say  ? Any  one  who  is  the 
parent  of  a son  is  interesting  to  m^.” 

“Has  Mrs.  Blimber  any  wish  to  see  any  remarkable 
person  ? ” asked  Sir  Barnet  courteously. 

Mrs.  Blimber  replied,  with  a sweet  smile  and  a shake 
of  her  sky-blue  cap,  that  if  Sir  Barnet  could  have  made 
her  known  to  Cicero,  she  would  have  troubled  him  : but 


86 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


such  an  introduction  not  being  feasible,  and  she  already 
enjoying  tbe  friendship  of  himself  and  his  amiable 
lady,  and  possessing  with  the  Doctor  her  husband  their 
joint  confidence  in  regard  to  their  dear  son — here  young 
Barnet  was  observed  to  curl  his  nose~she  asked  no 
more. 

Sir  Barnet  was  fain,  under  these  circumstances,  to 
content  himself  for  the  time  with  the  company  assem- 
bled. Florence  v/as  glad  of  that  ; for  she  had  a study 
to  pursue  among  them,  and  it  lay  too  near  her  heart,  and 
was  too  precious  and  momentous,  to  yield  to  any  other 
interest. 

There  were  some  children  staying  in  the  house.  ChiL 
dren  who  were  as  frank  and  happy  with  fathers  and 
with  mothers,  as  those  rosy  faces  opposite  home.  Chih 
dren  who  had  no  restraint  upon  their  love,  and  freely 
showed  it.  Florence  sought  to  learn  their  secret ; sought 
to  find  out  what  it  was  she  had  missed  ; what  simple  art 
they  knew,  and  she  knew  not ; how  she  could  be  taught 
by  them  to  show  her  father  that  she  loved  him,  and  to 
win  his  love  again. 

Many  a day  did  Florence  thoughtfully  observe  these 
children.  On  many  a bright  morning  did  she  leave  her 
bed  when  the  glorious  sun  rose,  and  walking  up  and 
down  upon  the  river’s  bank,  before  any  one  in  the  house 
was  stirring,  look  up  at  the  windows  of  their  rooms,  and 
think  of  them,  asleep,  so  gently  tended  and  affection- 
ately thought  of.  Florence  would  feel  more  lonely 
then,  than  in  the  great  house  all  alone  ; and  would 
think  sometimes  that  she  was  better  there  than  here, 
and  that  there  was  greater  peace  in  hiding  herself  than 
in  mingling  with  others  of  her  age,  and  finding  how  un- 
like them  all  she  was.  But  attentive  to  her  study,  though 
it  touched  her  to  the  quick  at  every  little  leaf  she  turned 
in  the  hard  book,  Florence  remained  among  them,  and 
tried,  with  patient  hope,  to  gain  the  knowledge  that  she 
wearied  for. 

Ah  ! how  to  gain  it  ! how  to  know  the  charm  in  its 
beginning  ! There  were  daughters  here,  who  rose  up 
in  the  morning,  and  lay  down  to  rest  at  night,  pos- 
sessed of  father’s  hearts  already.  They  had  no  repulse 
to  overcome,  no  coldness  to  dread,  no  frown  to  smooth 
away.  As  the  morning  advanced,  and  the  win^.ows 
opened  one  by  one,  and  the  dew  began  to  dry  upon  the 
flowers  and  grass,  and  youthful  feet  began  to  move  upon 
the  lawn,  Florence,  glancing  round  at  tbe  bright  faces, 
thought  what  was  there  she  could  learn  from  these 
children  ? It  was  too  late  to  learn  from  them  ; each 
could  approach  her  father  fearlessly,  and  put  up  her 
lips  to  meet  the  ready  kiss,  and  wind  her  arm  about  the 
neck  that  bent  down  to  caress  her.  She  could  not  begin 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


by  being*  so  bold.  Oh  ! could  it  be  that  there  was  less 
and  less  hope  as  she  studied  more  and  more  ! 

She  remembered  well,  that  even  the  old  woman  who 
had  robbed  her  when  a child — whose  image  and  whose 
house  and  all  she  had  said  and  done,  were  stamped  upon 
her  recollection,  with  the  enduring  sharpness  of  a fear- 
ful impression  made  at  that  early  period  of  life — had 
spoken  fondly  of  her  daugher,  and  how  terribly  even 
she  had  cried  out  in  the  pain  of  hopeless  separation 
from  her  child.  But  her  own  mother,  she  would  think 
again,  when  she  recalled  this,  had  loved  her  well.  Then, 
sometimes,  when  her  thoughts  reverted  swiftly  to  the 
void  between  herself  and  her  father,  Florence  would 
tremble,  and  the  tears  would  start  upon  her  face,  as  she 
pictured  to  herself  her  mother  living  on,  and  coming 
also  to  dislike  her,  because  of  her  wanting  the  unknown 
grace  that  should  conciliate  that  father  naturally,  and 
had  never  done  so  from  her  cradle.  She  knew  that  this 
imagination  did  wrong  to  her  mother's  memory,  and  had 
no  truth  in  it,  or  base  to  rest  upon  ; and  yet  she  tried  so 
hard  to  justify  him,  and  to  find  the  whole  blame  in  her- 
self, that  she  could  not  resist  its  passing,  like  a wild 
cloud,  through  the  distance  of  her  mind. 

There  came  among  the  other  visitors,  soon  after  Florence, 
one  beautiful  girl,  three  or  four  years  younger  than  she, 
who  was  an  orphan  child,  and  who  was  accompanied  by 
her  aunt,  a gray-haired  lady,  who  spoke  much  to  Flor- 
ence, and  who  greatly  liked  (but  that  they  all  did)  to 
hear  her  sing  of  an  evening,  and  would  always  sit  near 
her  at  that  time,  with  motherly  interest.  They  had  only 
been  two  days  in  the  house,  when  Florence,  being  in  an 
arbour  in  the  garden  one  warm  morning,  musingly  ob- 
servant of  a youthful  group  upon  the  turf,  through  some 
intervening  boughs,  and  wreathing  flowers  for  the  head 
of  one  little  creature  among  them  who  was  the  pet  and 
plaything  of  the  rest,  heard  this  same  lady  and  her  niece, 
in  pacing  up  and  down  a sheltered  nook  close  by,  speak 
of  herself. 

Is  Florence  an  orphan  like  me,  aunt?”  said  the  child. 

‘‘No,  my  love.  She  has  no  mother,  but  her  father  is 
living.” 

“ Is  she  in  mourning  for  her  poor  mama  now?”  in- 
quired the  child,  quickly. 

“No  ; for  her  only  brother.” 

“ Has  she  no  other  brother?" 

“None.” 

“No  sister  ? ” 

“ None.” 

“ I am  very,  very  sorry  ! ” said  the  little  girl. 

As  they  stopped  soon  afterwards  to  watch  some  boats, 
and  had  been  silent  in  the  meantime,  Florence,  who  had 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


risen  when  she  heard  her  name,  and  had  gathered  up 
her  flowers  to  go  and'  meet  them,  that  they  might  know 
of  her  being  within  hearing,  resumed  her  seat  and  work, 
expecting  to  hear  no  more,  but  the  conversation  re- 
commenced next  moment. 

‘ ‘ Florence  is  a favourite  with  every  one  here^  and 
deserves  to  be,  I am  sure,”  said  the  child,  earnestly, 

Where  is  her  papa  ?” 

The  aunt  replied,  after  a moment’s  pause,  that  she 
did  not  know.  Her  tone  of  voice  arrested  Florence,  who 
had  started  from  her  seat  again  ; and  held  her  fastened 
to  the  spot,  with  her  work  hastily  caught  up  to  her 
bosom,  and  her  two  hands  saving  it  from  being  scattered 
on  the  ground. 

“ He  is  in  England,  I hope,  aunt?”  said  the  child. 

I believe  so.  Yes  ; 1 know  he  is,  indeed.” 

Has  he  ever  been  here  ?” 

‘"I  believe  not.  No.” 

Is  he  coming  here  to  see  her?” 

I believe  not.” 

‘‘Is he  lame,  or  blind,  or  ill,  aunt?”  asked  the  child. 

The  flowers  that  Florence  held  to  her  breast  began  to 
fall  when  she  heard  those  words,  so  wonderingly  spoken. 
She  held  them  closer  ; and  her  face  hung  down  upon  them. 

“ Kate,”  said  the  lady,  after  another  moment  of  silence, 
“I  will  tell  you  the  whole  truth  about  Florence  as  I 
have  heard  it,  and  believe  it  to  be.  Tell  no  one  else,  my 
dear,  because  it  may  be  little  known  here,  and  your 
doing  so  would  give  her  pain.” 

“ I never  will ! ” exclaimed  the  child. 

“ I know  you  never  will,”  returned  the  lady.  “ I can 
trust  you  as  myself.  I fear  then,  Kate,  that  Florence’s 
father  cares  little  for  her,  very  seldom  sees  her,  never 
was  kind  to  her  in  her  life,  and  now  quite  shuns  her  and 
avoids  her.  She  would  love  him  dearly  if  he  would  suf- 
fer her,  but  he  will  not — though  for  no  fault  of  her’s  ; 
and  she  is  greatly  to  be  loved  and  pitied  by  all  gentk 
hearts.” 

More  of  the  flowers  that  Florence  held,  fell  scattering 
on  the  ground  ; those  that  remained  were  wet,  but  not 
with  dew  ; and  her  tace  dropped  upon  her  laden  hands. 

“Poor  Florence  ! Bear,  good  Florence  !”  cried  the 
child. 

“ Bo  you  know  why  I have  told  you  this,  Kate  ?”  said 
the  lady. 

“That  I may  be  very  kind  to  her,  and  take  great  care 
to  try  to  please  her.  Is  that  the  reason,  aunt  ? ” 

“ Partly,”  said  the  lady,  “ but  not  all.  Though  we  see 
her  so  cheerful ; with  a pleasant  smile  for  every  one  ; 
ready  to  oblige  us  all,  and  bearing  her  part  in  every 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


kmnsement  here  : she  can  hardly  he  quite  happy,  do  you 
ihink  she  can,  Kate  ? ” 

‘‘  I am  afraid  not,”  said  the  little  girl. 

“And  you  can  understand,”  pursued  the  lady,  “why 
her  observation  of  children  who  have  parents  who  are 
fond  of  them,  and  proud  of  them — like  many  here,  just 
now — should  make  her  sorrowful  in  secret  ?” 

“ Yes,  dear  aunt,”  said  the  child,  “ I understand  that 
very  well.  Poor  Florence  ! ” 

More  howers  strayed  upon  the  ground,  and  those  she 
yet  held  to  her  breast  trembled  as  if  a wintry  wind  were 
ifustling  them. 

“ My  Kate,”  said  the  lady,  whose  voice  was  serious, 
but  very  calm  and  sweet,  and  had  so  impressed  Florence 
from  the  first  moment  of  her  hearing  it,  “of  all  the 
youthful  people  here,  you  are  her  natural  and  harmless 
friend  ; you  have  not  the  innocent  means,  that  happier 
children  have” — 

“ There  are  none  happier,  aunt ! ” exclaimed  the  child, 
who  seemed  to  cling  about  her. 

— “ As  other  children  have,  dear  Kate,  of  reminding 
her  of  her  misfortune.  Therefore  I would  have  you, 
when  you  try  to  be  her  little  friend,  try  all  the  more 
for  that,  and  feel  that  the  bereavement  you  sustained — = 
thank  Heaven  ! before  you  knew  its  weight — gives  you 
claim  andiiold  upon  poor  Florence.” 

“But  I am  not  without  a parent's  love,  aunt,  and  I 
never  have  been,”  said  the  child,  with  you.” 

“However  that  may  be,  my  dear,”  returned  the  lady, 
“your  misfortune  is  a lighter  one  than  Florence's  ; for 
not  an  orphan  in  the  wide  world  can  be  so  deserted  as 
the  child  who  is  an  outcast  from  a parent's  love.  ” 

The  flowers  were  scattered  on  the  ground  like  dust ; 
the  empty  hands  were  spread  upon  the  face  ; and  or- 
phaned Florence,  shrinking  down  up6n  the  ground, 
wej)t  long  and  bitterly. 

But  true  of  heart  and  resol ut^  in  her  good  purpose, 
Florence  held  to  it  as  her  dying  mother  held  by  her 
upon  the  day  that  gave  Paul  life.  He  did  not  know 
how  much  she  loved  him.  However  long  the  time  in 
coming,  and  however  slow  the  interval,  she  must  try  to 
bring  that  knowledge  to  her  father's  heart  one  day  or 
other.  Meantime  she  must  be  careful  in  no  thoughtless 
word,  or  look,  or  burst  of  feeling  awakened  by  any 
chance  circumstance,  to  complain  against  him,  or  to  give 
occasion  for.  these  whispers  to  his  prejudice. 

Even  in  the  response  she  made  the  orphan  child,  to 
whom  she  was  a,ttracted  strongly,  and  whom  she  had 
such  occasion  to  remember,  Florence  was  mindful  of 
him.  If  she  singled  her  out  too  plainly  (Florence 
thought)  from  among  the  rest,  she  would  confirm— “iB 


90 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


one  mind  certainly  ; perliaps  in  more— the  belief  that  he 
was  cruel  and  unnatural.  Her  own  delight  was  no  set- 
off to  this.  What  she  had  overheard  was  a reason,  not 
for  soothing  herself,  but  for  saving  him  ; and  Florence 
did  it,  in  pursuance  of  the  study  of  her  heart. 

She  did  so  always.  If  a book  were  read  aloud,  and 
there  were  anything  in  the  story  that  pointed  at  an  un- 
kind father,  she  was  in  pain  for  their  application  of  it  to 
him  ; not  for  herself.  So  with  any  trifle  of  an  interlude 
that  was  acted,  or  picture  that  was  shown,  or  game  that 
was  played,  among  them.  The  occasions  for  such  ten- 
derness towards  him  were  so  many,  that  her  mind  mis- 
gave her  often,  it  would  indeed  be  better  to  go  back  to 
the  old  house,  and  live  again  within  the  shadow  of  its 
dull  walls,  undisturbed.  How  few  who  saw  sweet 
Florence,  in  her  spring  of  womanhood,  the  modest  little 
queen  of  those  small  revels,  imagined  what  a load  of 
sacred  care  lay  Heavy  in  her  breast ! How  few  of  those 
who  stiffened  in  her  father’s  freezing  atmosphere,  sus- 
pected what  a heap  of  fiery  coals  was  piled  upon  his 
head  ! 

Florence  pursued  her  study  patiently,  and,  failing  to 
acquire  the  secret  of  the  nameless  grace  she  sought, 
among  the  youthful  company  who  were  assembled  in 
the  house,  often  walked  out  alone,  in  the  early  morning, 
among  the  children  of  the  poor.  But  still  she  found 
them  all  too  far  advanced  to  learn  from.  They  had  won 
their  household  places  long  ago,  and  did  not  stand  with- 
out, as  she  did,  with  a bar  across  the  door. 

There  was  one  man  whom  she  several  times  observed 
at  work  very  early,  and  often  with  a girl  of  about  her 
own  age  seated  near  him.  He  was  a very  poor  man, 
who  seemed  to  have  no  regular  employment,  but  now 
went  roaming  about  the  banks  of  the  river  when  the 
tide  was  low,  looking  out  for  bits  and  scraps  in  the  mud  ; 
and  now  worked  at  the  unpromising  little  patch  of  gar- 
den-ground before  his  cottage  ; and  now  tinkered  up  a 
miserable  old  boat  thf  t belonged  to  him  ; or  did  some 
job  of  that  kind  for  a neighbour,  as  chance  occurred. 
Whatever  the  man’s  labour,  the  girl  was  never  em- 
ployed ; but  sat,  when  she  was  with  him,  in  a listless, 
moping  state,  and  idle. 

Florence  had  often  wished  to  speak  to  this  man  ; yet 
she  had  never  taken  courage  to  do  so,  as  he  made  no 
movement  towards  her.  But  one  morning  when  she 
happened  to  come  upon  him  suddenly,  from  a by-path 
among  some  pollard  willows  which  terminated  in  the 
little  shelving  piece  of  stony  ground  that  lay  between 
his  dwelling  and  the  water,  where  he  was  bending  over 
a fire  he  had  made  to  caulk  the  old  boat  which  was  lying 
bottom  upwards,  close  by,  he  raised  his  head  at  tho 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


91 


sound  of  her  footstep,  and  gave  her  Good  morning. 

""  Good  morning,”  said  Florence,  approaching  nearer, 
'^'"you  are  at  work  early.” 

'Tdbe  glad  to  be  often  at  work,  earlier,  miss,  if  I 
had  work  to  do.” 

‘"Is  it  so  hard  to  get?”  asked  Florence. 

"^/find  it  so,”  replied  the  man. 

Florence  glanced  to  where  the  girl  was  sitting,  drawn 
together,  with  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  and  her  chin  on 
her  hands,  and  said  : 

Is  that  your  daughter?” 

He  raised  his  head  quickly^  and  looking  towards  the 
girl  with  a brightened  face,  nodded  to  her,  and  said 

Yes.”  Florence  looked  towards  her  too,  and  gave  her 
a kind  salutation  ; the  girl  muttered  something  in  re- 
turn, ungraciously  and  sullenly. 

Is  she  in  want  of  employment  also  ?”  said  Florence. 

The  man  shook  his  head.  No,  miss,”  he  said.  I 
work  for  both.” 

xire  there  only  you  two,  then?”  inquired  Florence. 

Only  us  two,”  said  the  man.  Her  mother  has  been 
dead  these  ten  year.  Martha  ! ” (he  lifted  up  his  head 
again  and  whistled  to  her)  Won’t  you  say  a word  to  the 
pretty  young  lady  ? ” 

The  girl  made  an  impatient  gesture  with  her  cowering 
shoulders,  and  turned  her  head  another  way.  Ugly, 
misshapen,  peevish,  ill-conditioned,  ragged,  dirty — but 
beloved  ! Oh,  yes  ! Florence  had  seen  her  father’s  look 
towards  her,  and  she  knew  whose  look  it  had  no  likeness 
to. 

‘‘  I’m  afraid  she’s  worse  this  morning,  my  poor  girl  ! ” 
said  the  man,  suspending  his  work,  and  contemplating 
his  ill-favoured  child,  with  a compassion  that  was  the 
more  tender  for  being  rough. 

“ She  is  ill,  then  ?”  said  Florence. 

The  man  drew  a deep  sigh.  I don’t  believe  my 
Martha’s  had  five  short  days  good  health,”  he  answered, 
looking  at  her  still,  in  as  many  long  years.” 

""  Aj  ! and  more  than  that,  John,”  said  a neighbour, 
who  had  come  down  to  help  him  with  the  boat. 

“More  than  that,  you  say,  do  you?”  cried  the  other, 
pushing  back  his  battered  hat,  and  drawing  his  hand 
across  his  forehead.  “ Very  like.  It  seems  a long,  long 
time.” 

“And  the  more  the  time,”  pursued  the  neighbour, 
“ the  more  you’ve  favoured  and  humoured  her,  John, 
’till  she’s  got  to  be  a burden  to  herself,  and  everybody 
else.” 

“Not  to  me,”  said  her  father,  falling  to  his  work 
again.  “ Not  to  me.” 

Florence  could  feel — who  better  ? — how  truly  he  spoke. 


9^ 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


She  drew  a little  closer  to  him,  and  would  have  been 
glad  to  touch  his  rugged  hand,  and  thank  him  for  his 
goodness  to  the  miserable  object  that  he  looked  upon 
with  eyes  so  different  from  any  other  man's. 

Who  would  favour  my  poor  girl — to  call  it  favour- 
ing— if  I didn't  ? " said  the  father. 

‘‘Ay,  ay,"  cried  the  neighbour.  “In  reason,  John. 
But  you  ! You  rob  yourself  to  give  to  her.  You  bind 
yourself  hand  and  foot  on  her  account.  You  make  your 
life  miserable  along  of  her.  And  what  does  she  care  I 
You  don't  believe  she  knows  it?" 

The  father  lifted  up  his  head  again,  and  wtiistled  to 
her.  Martha  made  the  same  impatient  gesture  with  her 
crouching  shoulders,  in  reply  ; and  he  was  glad  and 
happy. 

“ Only  for  that,  miss,"  said  the  neighbour  with  a smile, 
in  which  there  was  more  of  secret  sympathy  than  he  ex- 
pressed : “only  to  get  that,  he  never  lets  her  out  of  his 
sight  ! " 

“Because  the  day'll  come,  and  has  been  coming  a long 
while,"  observed  the  other,  bending  low  over  his  work, 
“ when  to  get  half  as  much  from  that  unfort'nate  child 
of  mine— to  get  the  trembling  of  a finger,  or  the  waving 
of  a hair — would  be  to  raise  the  dead." 

Florence  softly  put  some  money  near  his  hand  on  the 
old  boat,  and  left  him. 

And  now  Florence  began  to  think,  if  she  were  to  fall 
ill,  if  she  were  to  fade  like  her  dear  brother,  would  he 
then  know  that  she  had  loved  him  ; would  she  then  grow 
dear  to  him  ; would  he  come  to  her  bedside,  when  she 
was  weak  and  dim  of  sight,  and  take  her  into  his  em- 
brace, and  cancel  all  the  past?  Would  he  so  forgive  her, 
in  that  changed  condition,  for  not  having  been  able  to 
lay  open  her  childish  heart  to  him,  as  to  make  it  easy  to 
relate  with  what  emotions  she  had  gone  out  of  his  rooro. 
that  night  ; what  she  had  meant  to  say  if  she  had  had 
the  courage  ; and  how  she  had  endeavoured,  afterwards^ 
to  learn  the  way  she  never  knew  in  infancy? 

Yes,  she  thought  if  she  were  dying,  he  would  relent. 
She  thought,  that  if  she  lay,  serene  and  not  unwilling  to 
depart,  upon  the  bed  that  was  curtained  round  with 
recollections  of  their  darling  boy,  he  would  be  touched 
home,  and  would  say,  “Dear  Florence,  live  for  me,  and 
we  will  love  each  other  as  we  might  have  done,  and  be 
as  happy  as  we  might  have  been  these  many  years  ! ” 
She  thought  that  if  she  heard  such  words  from  him,  and 
had  her  arms  clasped  round  him,  she  could  answer  with 
a smile,  “ It  is  too  late  for  anything  but  this  ; I never 
could  be  happier,  dear  father  ! " and  so  leave  him,  with 
a blessing  on  her  lips. 

The  golden  water  she  remembered  on  the  wall,  ap« 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


93 


peared  to  Florence,  in  tlie  light  of  such  reflections,  only 
as  a current  flowing  on  to  rest,  and  to  a region  where  the 
dear  ones,  gone  before,  were  waiting,  hand  in  ha.nd  ^ 
and  often  when  she  looked  upon  the  darker  river  rip' 
pling  at  her  feet,  she  thought  with  awful  wonder,  but 
not  terror,  of  that  river  which  her  brother  had  so  often 
said  was  bearing  him  away. 

The  father  and  his  sick  daughter  were  yet  fresh  in 
Florence's  mind,  and,  indeed,  that  incident  was  not  a 
week  old,  when  Sir  Barnet  and  his  lady  going  out  walk- 
ing in  the  lanes  one  afternoon,  proposed  to  her  to  bear 
them  company.  Florence  readily  consenting.  Lady  Sket^ 
ties  ordered  out  young  Barnet  as  a matter  of  course.  For 
nothing  delighted  Lady  Skettles  so  much,  as  beholding 
her  eldest  son  with  Florence  on  his  arm. 

Barnet,  to  say  the  truth,  appeared  to  entertain  an  op- 
posite sentiment  on  the  subject,  and  on  such  occasions 
frequently  expressed  himself  audibly,  though  indefinite- 
ly, in  reference  to  a parcel  of  girls."  As  it  was  not 
easy  to  ruffle  her  sweet  temper,  however,  Florence  gen- 
erally reconciled  the  young  gentleman  to  his  fate  after  a 
few  minutes,  and  they  strolled  on  amicably  : Lady  Sket- 
and  Sir  Barnet  following,  in  a state  of  perfect  com- 
placency and  high  gratification. 

This  was  the  order  of  procedure  on  the  afternoon  in 
question  : and  Florence  had  almost  succeeded  in  over- 
ruling the  present  objections  of  Skettles  junior  to  his 
destiny,  when  a gentleman  on  horseback  came  riding 
by,  looked  at  them  earnestly  as  he  paused,  drew  in  his 
rein,  wheeled  round,  and  came  riding  back  again,  hat 
in  hand. 

The  gentleman  had  looked  particularly  at  Florence  ; 
and  when  the  little  party  stopped,  on  his  riding  back,  hu 
bowed  to  her  before  saluting  Sir  Barnet  and  his  lady. 
Florence  had  no  remembrance  of  having  ever  seen  him, 
but  she  started  involuntarily  when  he  came  near  her, 
and  drew  back. 

‘‘My  horse  is  perfectly  quiet,  I assure  you,"  said  the 
gentleman. 

It  was  not  that,  but  something  in  the  gentleman  him- 
self— Florence  could  not  have  said  what — that  made  her 
recoil  as  if  she  had  been  stung, 

“ I have  the  honour  to  address  Miss  Dombey,  I be- 
lieve?" said  the  gentleman,  with  a most  persuasive 
smile.  On  Florence  inclining  her  head,  he  added,  ""  My 
name  is  Carker.  I can  hardly  hope  to  be  remembered 
by  Miss  Dombey,  except  by  nam.e.  Carker." 

Florence,  sensible  of  a strange  inclination  to  shiver, 
though  the  day  v/as  hot,  presented  him  to  her  host  and 
hostess  ; by  whom  he  was  very  graciously  received. 

beg  pardon,"  said  Mr,  Carker,  a thousand  times  ! 


94 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


But  I am  going  down  to-morrow  morning  to  Mr.  Bomo 
bey,  at  Leamington,  and  if  Miss  Bornbey  can  intrust  me 
wftb  any  commission,  need  I say  bow  mry  bappy  I shall 
be?’^ 

Sir  Barnet  immediately  divining  that  Florence  would 
desire  to  write  a letter  to  her  father,  proposed  to  return, 
and  besought  Mr.  Carker  to  come  home  and  dine  in  his 
riding  gear.  Mr,  Carker  had  the  misfortune  to  be  en- 
gaged for  dinner,  but  if  Miss  Bornbey  wished  to  write, 
nothing  would  delight  him  more  than  to  accompany 
them  back,  and  to  be  her  faithful  slave  in  waiting  as 
long  as  she  pleased.  As  he  said  this  with  his  widest 
smile,  and  bent  down  close  to  her  to  pat  his  horse’s 
neck,  'Florence,  meeting  his  eyes,  saw,  rather  than 
heard  him  say,  There  is  no  news  of  the  ship  ! ” 

Confused,  frightened,  shrinking  from  him,  and  not 
even  sure  that  he  had  said  those  words,  for  he  seemed 
to  have  shown  them  to  her  in  some  extraordinary  man- 
ner through  his  smile,  instead  of  uttering  them,  Flor- 
ence faintly  said  that  she  was  obliged  to  him,  but  she 
would  not  write  ; she  had  nothing  to  say. 

‘^Nothing  to  send.  Miss  Bornbey?”  said  the  man  of 
teeth. 

‘^Nothing,”  said  Florence,  ^'but  my— but  my  dear 
love — if  you  please.” 

Disturbed  as  Florence  was,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his 
face  with  an  imploring  and  expressive  look,  that  plainly 
besought  him,  if  he  knew — which  he  as  plainly  did — 
that  any  message  between  her  and  her  father  was  an  un- 
common charge,  but  that  one  most  of  all,  to  spare  her. 
Mr.  Carker  smiled  and  bowed  low,  and  being  charged 
by  Sir  Barnet  with  the  best  compliments  of  himself  and 
Lady  Skettles,  took  his  leave,  and  rode  away  ; leaving  a 
favourable  impression  on  that  worthy  couple.  Florence 
was  seized  with  such  a shudder  as  he  went,  that  Sir  Bar- 
net,  adopting  the  popular  superstition,  supposed  some- 
body was  passing  over  her  grave.  Mr.  Carker,  turning 
a corner,  on  the  instant,  looked  back,  and  bowed,  and 
disappeared  as  if  he  rode  off  to  the  churchyard,  straight, 
to  do  it. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Strange  News  of  Uncle  Sol. 

Captain  Cuttle,  though  no  sluggard,  did  not  turn 
so  early  on  the  morning  after  he  had  seen  Sol  Gills, 
through  the  shop- window,  writing  in  the  parlour,  with 
the  Midshipman  upon  the  counter,  and  Rob  the  Grinder 
making  up  his  bed  below  it,  but  that  the  clocks  struck 


V- 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


six  as  lie  raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  and  took  a survey 
of  his  little  chamber.  The  captain’s  eyes  must  have 
done  severe  duty,  if  he  usually  opened  them  as  wide  on 
awaking  as  he  did  that  morning  ; and  were  but  roughly 
rewarded  for  their  vigilance,  if  he  generally  rubbed  them 
half  as  hard.  But  the  occasion  was  no  common  one,  for 
Rob  the  Grinder  had  certainly  never  stood  in  the  door- 
way of  Captain  Cuttle’s  bed- room  before,  and  in  it  he 
^tood  then,  panting  at  the  captain,  with  a flushed  and 
touzled  air  of  bed  about  him,  that  greatly  heightened 
both  his  colour  and  expression. 

'‘Halloa!”  roared  the  captain.  "What’s  the  mat- 
ter ? ” 

Before  Rob  could  stammer  a word  in  answer.  Captain 
Cuttle  turned  out,  all  in  a heap,  and  covered  the  boy's 
mouth  with  his  hand. 

" Steady  my  lad,”  said  the  captain,  " don’t  ye  speak  a 
word  to  me  as  yet  I ” 

The  captain  looked  at  his  visitor  in  great  consterna- 
tion, gently  shouldered  him  into  the  next  room,  after 
laying  this  injunction  upon  him  : and  disappearing  for 
a few  moments,  forthwith  returned  in  the  blue  suit. 
Holding  up  his  hand  in  token  of  the  injunction  not  yet 
being  taken  off.  Captain  Cuttle  v/alked  up  to  the  cup- 
board, and  poured  himself  out  a dram  ; a counterpart  of 
which  he  handed  to  the  messenger.  The  captain  then 
stood  himself  up  in  a corner,  against  the  wall,  as  if  to 
forestall  the  possibility  of  being  knocked  backward  by 
the  communication  that  was  to  be  made  to  him  ; and 
having  swallowed  his  liquor,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
messenger,  and  his  face  as  pale  as  his  face  could  be,  re- 
quested him  to  " heave-a-head.’^ 

"Do  you  mean,  tell  you,  captain?”  asked  Rob,  who 
had  been  greatly  impressed  by  these  precautions. 

" Ay,”  said  the  captain. 

" Well,  sir,”  said  Rob,  “ I ain’t  got  much  to  tell.  But 
look  here  I ” 

Rob  produced  a bundle  of  keys.  The  captain  sur- 
veyed them,  remained  in  his  corner,  and  surveyed  the 
messenger. 

" And  look  here  ! ” pursued  Rob. 

The  boy  produced  a sealed  packet,  which  Captain  Cut- 
tie  stared  at  as  he  had  stared  at  the  keys. 

"When  I woke  this  morning,  captain,”  said  Rob, 

which  was  about  a quarter  after  five,  I found  these  on 
my  pillow.  The  shop-door  was  unbolted  and  unlocked, 
and  Mr.  Gills  gone. 

" Gone  ! ” roared  the  captain. 

" Flowed,  sir,”  returned  Rob. 

The  captain’s  voice  vras  so  tremendous,  and  he  came 


DOMBSY  AND  SON. 


97 


out  of  his  corner  with  such  way  on  him,  that  Rob  reo 
treated  before  him  into  another  corner  : holding  out  tha 
keys  and  packet,  to  prevent  himself  from  being  run 
down, 

“‘For  Captain  Cuttle,’  sir,”  cried  Rob,  “is  on  tha 
keys,  and  on  the  packet  too.  Upon  my  word  and  hon- 
our, Captain  Cuttle,  I don’t  know  anything  more  about 
it.  I wish  I may  die  if  I do  ! Here’s  a sitiwation  for  a 
lad  that’s  just  got  a sitiwation,”  cried  the  unfortunate 
Grinder,  screwing  his  cuff  into  his  face  : “his  master 
bolted  with  his  place,  and  him  blamed  for  it  ! ” 

These  lamentations  had  reference  to  Captain  Cuttle’s 
gaze,  or  rather  glare,  which  v/as  full  of  vague  sus 
picions,  threatenings,  and  denunciations.  Taking  the 
proffered  packet  from  his  hand,  the  captain  opened  it  and 
read  as  follows  : — 

“My  dear  Ned  Cuttle.  Enclosed  is  m.y  will  ! ” The 
captain  turned  it  over,  with  a doubtful  look — “and  tes- 
tament.— Where’s  the  testament?  ” said  the  captain,  in- 
stantly impeaching  the  ill-fated  Grinder.  “ What  have 
you  done  Avith  that,  my  lad  ? ” 

“/never  see  it,”  whimpered  Rob.  “Don’t  keep  on 
suspecting  an  innocent  lad,  captain.  I never  touched 
the  testament.” 

Captain  Cuttle  shook  his  head,  implying  that  some- 
body must  be  made  answerable  for  it ; and  gravely  pro= 
ceeded  : — 

“ Which  don’t  break  open  for  a year,  or  until  you  have 
decisive  intelligence  of  my  dear  Walter,  who  is  dear  to 
you,  Ned,  too,  I am  sure.”  The  captain  paused  and 
shook  his  head  in  some  emotion  ; then,  as  a re-establish- 
ment of  his  dignity  in  this  trying  position,  looked  Avith 
exceeding  sternness  at  the  Grinder.  “ If  you  should 
never  hear  of  me,  or  see  me  more,  Ned,  remember  an 
old  friend  as  he  will  remember  you  to  the  last— kindly  ; 
and  at  least  until  the  period  I have  mentioned  has  ex- 
pired, keep  a home  in  the  old  place  for  Walter.  There 
are  no  debts,  the  loan  from  Dombey’s  house  is  paid  off, 
and  all  my  keys  I send  with  this.  Keep  this  quiet,  and 
make  no  inquiry  for  me  ; it  is  useless.  So  no  more,  dear 
Ned,  from  your  true  friend,  Solomon  Gills.”  The  cap- 
tain took  a long  breath,  and  then  read  these  words  writ- 
ten below:  “‘The  boy  Rob,  well  recommended,  as  I 
told  you,  from  Dombey’s  house.  If  all  else  should  come 
to  the  hammer,  take  care,  Ned,  of  the  little  Midship- 
man.’ ” 

To  convey  to  posterity  any  idea  of  the  manner  in  which 
the  captain,  after  turning  this  letter  over  and  over,  and 
reading  it  a score  of  times,  sat  down  in  his  chair,  and 
held  a court-martial  on  the  subject  in  his  oAvn  mind, 
would  require  the  united  genius  of  all  the  great  men^ 
VoL.  12  — E 


98 


WORKS'  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


who,  discarding  their  own  untoward  days,  have  deter- 
mined to  go  down  to  posterity,  and  have  never  got 
there.  At  first  the  captain  was  too  much  confounded 
and  distressed  to  think  of  anything  but  the  letter  itself  ; 
and  even  when  his  thoughts  began  to  glance  upon  the 
various  attendant  facts,  they  might,  perhaps,  as  well 
have  occupied  themselves  with  their  former  theme,  for 
any  light  they  reflected  on  them.  In  this  state  of  mind, 
Captain  Cuttle  having  the  Grinder  before  the  court,  and 
no  one  else,  found  it  a great  relief  to  decide,  generally., 
that  he  was  an  object  of  suspicion  : which  the  captain 
BO  clearly  expressed  in  his  visage,  that  Rob  remon- 
strated. 

'"Oh,  don’t,  captain  ! ” cried  the  Grinder.  "I  wonder 
how  you  can ! what  .have  I done  to  be  looked  at,  like 
that?’^ 

"My  lad,”  said  Captain  Cuttle,  "don’t  you  sing  out 
afore  you’re  hurt.  And  don’t  you  commit  yourself, 
whatever  you  do.” 

I haven’t  been  and  committed  nothing,  captain,”  an- 
swered Rob. 

"Keep  her  free,  then,”  said  the  captain,  impressively, 

' ' and  ride  easy.  ” 

With  a deep  sense  of  the  responsibility  imposed  upon 
him,  and  the  necessity  of  thoroughly  fathoming  this 
mysterious  affair,  as  became  a man  in  his  relations  with 
the  parties.  Captain  Cuttle  resolved  to  go  down  and  ex- 
amine the  premises,  and  to  keep  the  Grinder  with  him. 
Considering  that  youth  as*  under  arrest  at  present,  the 
captain  was  in  some  doubt  whether  it  might  not  be  ex- 
pedient to  handcuff  him,  or  tie  his  ancles  together,  or 
attach  a weight  to  his  legs,  but  not  being  clear  as  to  the 
legality  of  such  formalities,  the  captain  decided  merely 
to  hold  him  by  the  shoulder  all  the  way  and  knock  him 
down  if  he  made  any  objection. 

However,  he  made  none,  and  consequently  got  to  the 
Instrument-maker’s  house  without  being  placed  under 
any  more  stringent  restraint.  As  the  shutters  were  not 
yet  taken  down,  the  captain’s  first  care  was  to  have  the 
shop  opened  ; and  when  the  daylight  was  freely  admit-* 
feed,  he  proceeded,  with  its  aid,  to  further  investigation. 

The  captain’s  first  care  was  to  establish  himself  in  a 
chair  in  the  shop,  as  president  of  the  solemn  tribunal 
that  was  sitting  within  him  ; and  to  require  Rob  to  lie 
down  in  his  bed  under  the  counter,  show  exactly  where 
he  discovered  the  keys  and  packet  when  he  awoke,  how 
he  found  the  door  when  he  went  to  try  it,  how  he  started 
off  to  Brig-place — cautiously  preventing  the  latter  imita- 
tion from  being  carried  farther  than  the  threshold — and 
;30  on  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  When  all  this  had  been 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


99 


done  several  times,  the  captain  shook  his  head  and 
seemed  to  think  the  matter  had  a bad  look. 

Next,  the  captain,  with  some  indistinct  idea  of  linding 
a body,  instituted  a strict  search  over  the  whole  house  : 
groping  in  the  cellars  with  a lighted  candle,  thrusting 
his  hook  behind  doors,  bringing  his  head  into  violent 
contact  with  beams,  and  covering  himself  with  cobwebs, 
Mounting  up  to  the  old  man’s  bed-room,  they  found  that 
he  had  not  been  in  bed,  on  the  previous  night,  but  had 
merely  laid  down  on  the  coverlet,  as  was  evident  from 
the  impression  yet  remaining  there. 

‘"And  I think,  captain,”  said  Rob,  looking  round  the 
room,  that  when  Mr.  Gills  was  going  in  and  out  so  often, 
these  last  few  days,  he  was  taking  little  things  away, 
piecemeal,  not  to  attract  attention.” 

Ay  ! ” said  the  captain,  mvsteriously.  ‘‘  Why  so,  my 
lad?” 

^"Why,”  returned  Rob,  looking  about,  don’t  see 
his  shaving  tackle.  Nor  his  brushes,  captain.  Nor  no 
shirts.  Nor  yet  his  shoes.” 

As  each  of  these  articles  was  mentioned,  Captain  Cut- 
tie  took  particular  notice  of  the  corresponding  depart, 
IQaent  of  the  Grinder,  lest  he  should  appear  to  have  been 
in  recent  use,  or  should  prove  to  be  in  present  posses- 
sion thereof.  But  Rob  had  no  occasion  to  shave,  certain- 
ly was  not  brushed,  and  wore  the  clothes  he  had  \vorn  for 
a long  time  past,  beyond  all  possibility  of  mistake. 

‘‘And  what  should  you  say,”  said  the  captain — ‘‘not 
committing  yourself— about  his  time  of  sheering  off? 
Hey  ?” 

“ Vf hy,  I think,  captain,”  returned  Rob,  “that  he 
must  have  gone  pretty  soon  after  I began  to  snore.” 

“ What  o’clock  was  that?”  said  the  captain,  prepared 
to  be  very  particular  about  the  exact  time. 

“ How  can  I tell,  captain  ! ” answered  Rob.  “ I only 
know  that  I’m  a heavy  sleeper  at  first,  and  a light  one 
towards  morning  ; and  if  Mr.  Gills  had  come  through 
the  shop  near  daybreak,  though  ever  so  much  on  tip  toe. 
I’m  pretty  sure  I should  have  heard  him  shut  the  door  at 
all  events.” 

On  mature  consideration  of  this  evidence.  Captain  Cut- 
tie  began  to  think  that  the  Instrument-maker  must  have 
vanished  of  his  own  accord  ; to  which  logical  conclusion 
he  was  assisted  by  the  letter  addressed  to  himself,  which, 
as  being  unquestionably  in  the  old  man’s  handwriting, 
would  seem,  with  no  great  forcing,  to  bear  the  construc- 
tion, that  he  arranged  of  his  own  will,  to  go^  and  so 
went.  The  captain  had  next  to  consider  where  and 
why  ? and  as  there  was  no  way  whatsoever  that  ho  saw 
to  the  solution  of  the  first  diflBulty,  he  confined  his  medi- 
tations to  the  second. 


100 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Remembering  the  old  man’s  curious  manner,  and  the 
farewell  he  had  taken  of  him  : unaccountably  fervent  at 
the  time,  but  quite  intelligible  now  : a terrible  appre- 
hension strengthened  on  the  captain,  that,  overpowered 
by  his  anxieties  and  regrets  for  Walter,  he  had  been 
driven  to  commit  suicide.  Unequal  to  the  wear  and 
tear  of  daily  life,  as  he  had  often  professed  himself  to 
be,  and  shaken  as  he  no  doubt  was  by  the  uncertainty 
and  deferred  hope  he  had  undergone,  it  seemed  no  vio- 
lently strained  misgiving,  but  only  too  probable. 

Free  from  debt,  and  with  no  fear  for  his  personal 
liberty,  or  the  seizure  of  his  goods,  what  else  but  such  a 
state  of  madness  could  have  hurried  him  away  alone 
and  secretly  ? As  to  his  carrying  some  apparel  with  him,  if 
he  had  really  done  so — and  they  were  not  even  sure  of 
that — he  jnight  have  done  so,  the  captain  argued,  to  pre- 
vent inquiry,  to  distract  attention  from  his  probable  fate, 
or  to  ease  the  very  mind  that  was  now  revolving  all 
these  possibilities.  Such,  reduced  into  plain  language, 
and  condensed  within  a small  compass,  was  the  final 
result  and  substance  of  Captain  Cuttle’s  deliberations  ; 
which  took  a long  time  to  arrive  at  this  pass,  and  were 
like  some  more  public  deliberations,  very  discursive  and 
disorderly. 

Dejected  and  despondent  in  the  extreme.  Captain 
Cuttle  felt  it  just  to  release  Rob  from  the  arrest  in 
which  he  had  placed  him,  and  to  enlarge  him,  subject  to 
a kind  of  honourable  inspection  which  he  still  resolved 
to  exercise  ; and  having  hired  a man,  from  Brogley  the 
broker,  to  sit  in  the  shop  during  their  absence,  the 
captain,  taking  Rob  with  him,  issued  forth  upon  a dis- 
mal quest  after  the  mortal  remains  of  Solomon  Gills. 

Not  a station-house  or  bone-house,  or  work-house  in 
the  metropolis  escaped  a visitation  from  the  hard  glazed 
hat.  Along  the  wharves,  among  the  shipping,  on  the 
bank  side,  up  the  river,  down  the  river,  here,  there, 
everywhere,  i t went  gleaming  where  men  were  thickest 
like  the  hero’s  helmet  in  an  epic  battle.  For  a whole 
week  the  captain  read  of  all  the  found  and  missing 
people  in  all  the  newspapers  and  handbills,  and  went 
forth  on  expeditions  at  all  hours  of  the  day  to  identify 
Solomon  Gills,  in  poor  little  shop-boys  who  had  fallen 
overboard  and  in  tall  foreigners  with  dark  beards,  who 
had  taken  poison — to  make  sure,”  Captain  Cuttle  said 

that  it  warn’ t him.”  It  is  a sure  thing  that  it  never 
was,  and  that  the  good  captain  had  no  other  satisfaction. 

Cap  tain.  Cuttle  at  last  abandoned  these  attempts  as 
hopeless,  and  set  himself  to  consider  what  was  to  be 
done  next.  After  several  new  perusals  of  his  poor 
friend’s  letter,  he  considered  that  the  maintenance  of 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


101 


a Dome  in  the  old  place  for  Walter’^  was  the  primary 
duty  imposed  upon  him.  Therefore,  the  captain’s 
decision  was,  that  he  would  keep  house  on  the  premises 
of  Solomon  Grills  himself,  and  would  go  into  the  instru- 
ment business,  and  see  what  came  of  it. 

But  as  this  step  involved  the  relinquishment  of  his 
apartments  at  Mrs.  MacStinger’s,  and  he  knew  that 
resolute  woman  would  never  hear  of  his  deserting  them, 
the  captain  took  the  desperate  determination  of  running 
away. 

Now,  look  ye  here,  my  lad,”  said  the  captain  to  Rob, 
when  he  had  matured  this  notable  scheme,  ‘ ‘ to-morrow, 
I shan’t  be  found  in  this  here  roadstead  till  night — not 
till  arter  midnight  p’raps.  But  you  keep  watch  till  you 
hear  me  knock,  and  the  moment  you  do,  turn-to,  and  open 
the  door.” 

Very  good,  captain,”  said  Rob. 

You’ll  continue  to  be  rated  on  these  here  books,” 
pursued  the  captain  condescendingly,  "'and  I don’t  say 
but  what  you  may  get  promotion,  if  you  and  me  should 
pull  together  with  a will.  But  the  moment  you  hear  me 
knock  to-morrow  night,  whatever  time  it  is,  turn-to  and 
show  yourself  smart  with  the  door.  ” 

I’ll  be  sure  to  do  it,  captain,”  replied  Rob. 

""Because  you  understand,”  resumed  the  captain, 
coming  back  again  to  enforce  this  charge  upon  his  mind, 

" " there  may  be,  for  anything  I can  say,  a chase  ; and  I 
might  be  took  while  I was  waiting,  if  you  didn’t  show 
yourself  smart  at  the  door.” 

Rob  again  assured  the  captain  that  he  would  be  prompt 
and  wakeful ; and  the  captain  having  made  this  prudent 
arrangement,  went  home  to  Mrs.  MacStinger’s  for  the 
last  time. 

The  sense  the  captain  had  of  its  being  the  last  time, 
and  of  the  awful  purpose  hidden  beneath  his  blue  waist- 
coat, inspired  him  with  such  a mortal  dread  of  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger  that  the  sound  of  that  lady’s  foot  down-stairs 
at  any  time  of  the  day,  was  sufficient  to  throw  him  into 
a fit  of  trembling.  It  fell  out,  too,  that  Mrs.  MacStin- 
ger  was  in  a charming  temper — mild  and  as  placid  as  a 
house-lamb  ; and  Captain  Cuttle’s  conscience  suffered 
terrible  twinges,  when  she  came  up  to  inquire  if  she  could 
cook  him  nothing  for  his  dinner. 

A nice  small  kidney-pudding  now,  Cap’en  Cuttle,” 
said  his  landlady  : ""  or  a sheep’s  heart.  Don’t  mind  my 
trouble.” 

""No  thank’ee,  ma’am,”  returned  the  captain. 

""  Have  a roast  fowl,”  said  Mrs.  MacStinger,  ""  with 
a bit  of  weal  stuffing  and  some  egg  sauce.  Come, 
Cap’en  Cuttle  ! Give  yourself  a little  treat ! ” 


102 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


"'No  thank’ee,  ma'am,’’  returned  tlie  captain  very 
humbly. 

‘"I’m  sure  you’re  out  of  sorts,  and  want  to  be  stimulat- 
ed,” said  Mrs.  MacStinger.  “ Why  not  have,  for  once 
in  a way,  a bottle  of  sherry  wine  ? ” 

‘‘  Well,  ma’am,”  rejoined  the  captain,  if  you’d  be  so 
good  as  take  a glass  or  two,  I think  I would  try  thatc 
Would  you  do  me  the  favour,  ma’am,”  said  the  captain, 
torn  to  pieces  by  his  conscience,  ‘‘to  accept  a quarter’s 
rent  a-head  ? ” 

‘‘And  why  so,  Cap’en  Cuttle?”  retorted  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger — sharply  as  the  captain  thought. 

The  captain  was  frightened  to  death.  “ If  you  would, 
ma’am,”  he  said  with  submission,  it  would  oblige  me. 
I can’t  keep  my  money  very  well.  It  pays  itself  out.  I 
should  take  it  kind  if  you’d  comply.” 

Well,  Cap’en  Cuttle,”  said  the  unconscious  Mac- 
Stinger,  rubbing  her  hands,  ‘‘  you  can  do  as  you  please. 
It  s not  for  me,  with  my  family,  to  refuse,  no  more  than 
it  is  to  ask.” 

‘‘And  would  you,  ma’am,”  said  the  captain,  taking 
down  the  tin  canister,  in  v/hich  he  kept  his  cash,  from 
the  top-shelf  of  the  cupboard,  “be  so  good  as  offer  eight- 
een-pence a-piece  to  the  little  family  all  round  ? If  you 
could  make  it  convenient,  ma’am,  to  pass  the  word  pres- 
ently for  them  children  to  come  for’ard,  in  a body,  I 
should  be  glad  to  see  ’em.” 

These  innocent  MacStingers  were  so  many  daggers  to 
the  captain’s  breast,  when  they  appeared  in  a swarm, 
and  tore  at  him ^ with  the  confiding  trustfulness  he  so 
little  deserved.  * The  eye  of  Alexander  MacStinger,  who 
had  been  his  favourite,  was  insupportable  to  the  captain  ; 
the  voice  of  Juliana  MacStinger,  who  was  the  picture  of 
her  mother,  made  a coward  of  him. 

Captain  Cuttle  kept  up  appearances,  nevertheless,  tol- 
erably well,  and  for  an  hour  or  two  was  very  hardly  used 
and  roughly  handled  by  the  young  MacStingers  : who  in 
their  childish  frolics,  did  a little  damage  also  to  the 
glazed  hat,  by  sitting  in  it,  two  at  a time,  as  in  a nest, 
and  drumming  on  the  inside  of  the  crown  with  their 
shoes.  At  length  the  captain  sorrowfully  dismissed 
them  : taking  leave  of  these  cherubs  with  the  poignant 
remorse  and  grief  of  a man  who  was  going  to  execution. 

In  the  silence  of  night,  the  captain  packed  up  his 
heavier  property  in  a chest,  which  he  locked,  intending 
to  leave  it  there,  in  all  probability  for  ever,  but  on  the 
forlorn  chance  of  one  day  finding  a man  sufficiently  bold 
and  desperate  to  come  and  ask  for  it.  Of  his  lighter 
necessaries,  the  captain  made  a bundle  ; and  disposed 
his  plate  about  his  person,  ready  for  flight.  At  the  hour 
of  midnight,  when  Brig-place  was  buried  in  slumber, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


103 


and  Mrs.  MacStinger  was  lulled  in  sweet  oblivion,  witb 
her  infants  around  lier,  the  guilty  captain  stealing  down 
on  tip-toe,  in  the  dark,  opened  the  door,  closed  it  softly 
after  him,  and  took  to  his  heels. 

Pursued  by  the  image  of  Mrs.  MacStinger  springing 
out  of  bed,  and,  regardless  of  costume,  following  and 
bringing  him  back  ; pursued  also  by  a consciousness  of 
his  enormous  crime  : Captain  Cuttle  held  on  at  a great 
pace,  and  allowed  no  grass  to  grow-  under  his  feet,  be- 
tween Brig-place  and  the  Instrument-maker’s  door.  It 
opened  when  he  knocked — for  Rob  was  on  the  watch — 
and  when  it  was  bolted  and  locked  behind  him.  Captain 
Cuttle  felt  comparatively  safe. 

"'Whew!”  cried  the  captain,  looking  round  him, 
" It’s  a breather  ! ” 

"Nothing  the  matter,  is  there,  captain  ?”  cried  the 
gaping  Rob. 

" No,  no  I ” said  Captain  Cuttle,  after  changing  colour, 
and  listening  to  a passing  footstep  in  the  street.  "But 
mind  ye,  my  lad  ; if  any  lady,  except  either  of  them  tw’o 
as  you  see  t’other  day,  ever  comes  and  asks  for  Cap’en 
Cuttle,  be  sure  to  report  no  person  of  that  name  known, 
nor  never  heard  of  here ; observe  them  orders,  will 
you  ? ” 

" I’ll  take  care,  captain,”  returned  Rob. 

" You  might  say — if  you  liked,”  hesitated  the  captain 
" that  you’d  read  in  the  paper  that  a cap’en  of  that  name 
•was  gone  to  Australia,  emigrating  along  with  a whole 
ship’s  complement  of  people  as  had  all  swore  never  to 
come  back  no  more.” 

Rob  nodded  his  understanding  of  these  instructions  ; 
and  Captain  Cuttle  promising  to  make  a man  of  him  if 
he  obeyed  orders,  dismissed  him,  yawning,  to  his  bed 
under  the  counter,  and  went  aloft  to  the  chamber  of  Sol- 
omon Gills. 

What  the  captain  suffered  next  day,  whenever  a bon- 
net passed,  or  how  often  he  darted  out  of  the  shop  to 
elude  imaginary  MacStingers,  and  sought  safety  in  the 
attic,  cannot  be  told.  But  to  avoid  the  fatigues  attend- 
ant on  this  means  of  self-preservation,  the  captain  cur- 
tained the  glass  door  of  communication  between  the  shop 
and  parlour,  on  the  inside,  fitted  a key  to  it  from  the 
bunch  that  had  been  sent  to  him  ; and  cut  a small  hole 
of  espial  in  the  wail.  The  advantage  of  this  fortification 
is  obvious.  On  a bonnet  appearing,  the  captain  instantly 
slipped  into  his  garrison,  locked  himself  up,  and  took 
secret  observation  of  the  enemy.  Finding  it  a false 
alarm,  the  captain  instantly  slipped  out  again.  And  the 
bonnets  in  the  street  were  so  very  numerous,  and  alarm? 
were  so  inseparable  from  their  appearance,  that  the  capr 


104 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tain  was  almost  Incessantly  slipping  in  and  out  all  day 
long. 

Captain  Cuttle  found  time,  however,  in  the  midst  oi 
this  fatiguing  service  to  inspect  the  stock  ; in  connexion 
with  which  he  had  the  general  idea  (very  laborious  to 
Rob)  that  too  much  friction  could  not  be  bestowed  upon 
it,  and  that  it  could  not  be  made  too  bright.  He  alsc 
ticketed  a few  attractive  looking  articles  at  a venture,  at 
prices  ranging  from  ten  shillings  to  fifty  pounds,  and 
exposed  them  in  the  window  to  the  great  astonishment 
of  the  public. 

After  effecting  these  improvements.  Captain  Cuttla 
surrounded  by  the  instruments,  began  to  feel  scientifie  •. 
and  looked  up  at  the  stars  at  night,  through  the  skylight, 
when  he  was  smoking  his  pipe  in  the  little  back  parloua? 
before  going  to  bed,  as  if  he  had  established  a kind  of 
property  in  them.  As  a tradesman  in  the  city,  too,  he 
bf-gan  to  have  an  interest  in  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  the 
Sheriffs,  and  in  public  companies  ; and  felt  bound  to 
read  the  quotations  of  the  Funds  every  day,  though  he 
was  unable  to  make  out,  on  any  principles  of  navigation, 
what  the  figures  meant,  and  could  have  very  well  dis- 
pensed with  the  fractions.  Florence,  the  captain  waited 
on,  with  his  strange  news  of  uncle  Sol,  immediately 
after  taking  possession  of  the  Midshipman ; but  she 
was  away  from  home.  So  the  captain  sat  himself  down 
in  his  altered  station  of  life,  with  no  company  but  Rob 
the  Grinder  ; and  losing  count  of  time,  as  men  do  when 

freat  changes  come  upon  them,  thought  musingly  of 
V'aiter,  and  of  Solomon  Gills,  and  even  of  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger  herself,  as  among  the  things  that  had  been. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

Shadows  of  the  Past  aiid  Future. 

Your  most  obedient,  sir,’’  said  the  major.  Damme, 
sir,  a friend  of  my  friend  Dombey’s  is  a friend  of  mine, 
and  Fm  glad  to  see  you  ! ” 

I am  infinitely  obliged,  Carker,’’  explained  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  to  Major  Bagstock  for  his  company  and  conversa- 
tion. Major  Bagstock  has  rendered  me  great  service, 
Carker. 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  hat  in  hand,  just  arrived  at 
Leamington,  and  just  introduced  to  the  major,  showed 
the  major  his  whole  double  range  of  teeth,  and  trusted 
he  might  take  the  liberty  of  thanking  him  with  all  his 
heart  for  having  effected  so  great  an  improvement  in 
Mr.  Dombey’s  looks  and  spirits. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


105 


By  Gad,  sir,”  said  the  major,  in  reply,  '"there  are 
no  thanks  due  to  me,  for  it’s  a give  ana  take  affair.  A 
great  creature  like  our  friend  Dombey,  sir,”  said  the 
major,  lowering  his  voice,  but  not  lowering  it  so  much 
as  to  render  it  inaudible  to  that  gentleman,  ""  cannot 
help  improving  and  exalting  his  friends.  He  strengthens 
and  invigorates  a man,  sir,  does  Dombey,  in  his  moral 
^aature.  ” 

Mr.  Carker  snapped  at  the  expression.  In  his  moral 
nature.  Exactly.  The  very  words  he  had  been  on  the 
point  of  suggesting. 

""  But  when  my  friend  Dombey,  sir,”  added  the  major, 
""  talks  to  you  of  Major  Bagstock,  I must  crave  leave  to 
get  him  and  you  right.  He  means  plain  Joe,  sir-— Joey 
B.— Josh.  Bagstock — Joseph — rough  and  tough  old  J,, 
sir.  At  your  service.” 

Mr.  Garker’s  excessi  vely  friendly  inclinations  towards 
the  major,  and  Mr.  Carker’s  admiration  of  his  roughness, 
toughness,  and  plainness,  gleamed  out  of  every  tooth  in 
Mr.  Carker’s  head. 

""  And  now,  sir,”  said  the  major,  you  and  Dombey 
have  the  devil’s  own  amount  of  business  to  talk  over.” 

""  By  no  means,  major,”  observed  Mr.  Dombey. 

""  Dombey,”  said  the  major  defiantly,  ""  I know  better  ; 
a man  of  your  mark — the  Colossus  of  commerce— -is  not  to 
be  interrupted.  Your  moments  are  precious.  We  shall 
meet  at  dinner-time.  In  the  interval  old  Joseph  will  be 
scarce.  The  dinner  hour  is  at  sharp  seven,  Mr.  Carker.” 

With  that,  the  major,  greatly  swollen  as  to  his  face, 
withdrew  ; but  immediately  putting  in  his  head  at  the 
duor  again,  said  : 

L beg  your  pardon.  Dombey,  have  you  any  message 
to  ’em  ? ” 

Mr.  Dombey  in  some  embarrassment,  and  not  without  a 
glance  at  the  courteous  keeper  of  his  business  confidence, 
intrusted  the  major  with  his  compliments. 

‘"By  the  Lord,  sir,”  said  the  major,  “you  must  make 
it  something  warmer  than  that,  or  old  Joe  will  be  far 
from  welcome.  ” 

“ Regards  then,  if  you  will,  major,”  returned  Mr. 
Dombey. 

“ Damme,  sir,”  said  the  major,  shaking  his  shoulders 
and  his  great  cheeks  jocularly  ; “ make  it  something 
warmer  than  that.” 

“What  you  please,  then,  major,”  observed  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, 

? “Gur  friend  is  sly  sir,  sly  sir,  de-vilish  sly,”  said  th^ 
major,  staring  round  the  door  at  Carker.  “So  is  Bag- 
stock.”  But  stopping  in  the  midst  of  a chuckle,  and 
drawing  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  the  major  so  emnly 
exclaimed,  as  he  struck  himself  on  the  chest,  “ Dorn  jey  I 


106 


WOEKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


I envy  your  feelings.  God  bless  you  ! ” and  withdrew. 
You  must  have  found  the  gentleman  a great  re- 
source,” said  Carker,  following  him  with  his  teeth. 

‘‘  Very  great  indeed,’"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

“ He  has  friends  here,  no  doubt,”  said  Carker.  I 
perceive,  from  what  he  has  said,  that  you  go  into  society 
here.  Do  you  know,”  smiling  horribly,  ‘‘  I am  so  very 
glad  that  you  go  into  society  ! ” 

Mr.  Dombey  acknowledged  this  display  of  interest  on 
the  part  of  his  second  in  command,  by  twirling  his  watch- 
chain,  and  slightly  moving  his  head. 

'‘You  were  formed  for  society,”  said  Carker.  “ Of  all 
the  men  I know,  you  are  the  best  adapted  by  nature  and 
by  position,  for  society.  Do  you  know  I have  been  fre- 
quently amazed  that  you  should  have  held  it  at  arm’s 
length  so  long  ! ” 

‘ ‘ I have  had  my  reasons,  Carker.  I have  been  alone, 
and  indifferent  to  it.  But  you  have  great  social  qualifi- 
cations yourself,  and  are  the  more  likely  to  have  been  sur- 
prised.” 

'‘Oh  ! 1!  ” returned  the  other,  with  ready  self-dispar- 
agement. “ It’s  quite  another  matter  in  the  case  of  a man 
like  me.  I don’t  come  into  comparison  with  you'* 

Mr.  Dombey  put  his  hand  to  his  neckcloth,  settled  his 
chin  in  it,  coughed,  and  stood  looking  at  his  faithful  friend 
and  servant  for  a few  moments  in  silence. 

“ I shall  have  the  pleasure,  Carker,”  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
at  length  : making  as  if  he  swallowed  something  a little 
too  large  for  his  throat  : “ to  present  you  to  my — to  the 
major’s  friends.  Highly  agreeable  people.” 

“ Ladies  among  them,  I presume  ! ” insinuated  th© 
smooth  Manager. 

“ They  are  all— that  is  to  say,  they  are  both— ladies,” 
replied  Mr.  Dombey. 

“ Only  two  ? ” smiled  Carker. 

“ There  are  only  two.  1 have  confined  my  visits  to 
their  residence,  and  have  made  no  other  acquaintano© 
here.  ” 

“ Sisters,  perhaps?”  quoth  Carker. 

“ Mother  and  daughter,”  replied  Mr.  Dombey. 

As  Mr.  Dombey  dropped  his  eyes,  and  adjusted  his 
neckcloth  again,  the  smiling  face  of  Mr.  Carker  the  Man- 
ager became  in  a moment,  and  without  any  stage  of  tran- 
sition, transformed  into  a most  intent  and  frowning  face, 
scanning  his  closely,  and  with  an  ugly  sneer.  As  Mr. 
Dombey  raised  his  eyes,  it  changed  back,  no  less  quickly, 
to  its  old  expression,  and  showed  him  every  gum  of 
which  it  stood  possessed. 

“ You  are  very  kind,’'  said  Carker.  “I  shall  be  de- 
lighted to  know  them.  Speaking  of  daughters,  I have 
seen  Miss  Dombey.” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


107 


There  was  a sudden  rnsh  of  blood  to  Mr.  Dombey’s  face„ 
I took  the  liberty  of  waiting  on  her/'  said  Mr.  Carker, 

to  inquire  if  she  could  charge  me  with  any  little  com- 
mission. I am  not  so  fortunate  as  to  be  the  bearer  of 
any  but  her — but  her  dear  love.” 

Wolf’s  face  that  it  was  then,  v>^ith  even  the  hot  tongue 
revealing  itself  through  the  stretched  mouth,  as  the  eyes 
encountered  Mr.  Dombey’s  ! 

What  business  intelligence  is  there  ? ” inquired  the 
latter  gentleman,  after  a silence,  during  which  Mr.  Car- 
ker had  produced  some  memoranda  and  other  papers. 

‘'There  is  very  little,”  returned  Mr.  Carker.  “ Upon 
the  whole  we  have  not  had  our  usual  good  fortune  of 
late,  but  that  is  of  little  moment  to  you.  At  Lloyd’s 
they  give  up  the  Son  and  Heir  for  lost.  Well,  she  wan 
insured  from  her  keel  to  her  masthead.” 

“ Carker,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  taking  a chair  near  him^ 
“ I cannot  say  that  young  man,  Gay,  ever  impressed  ms 
favourably — ” 

“ NTor  me,”  interposed  the  Manager. 

“ But  I wish,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  without  heeding  the 
interruption,  “ he  had  never  gone  on  board  that  ship.  I 
wish  he  had  never  been  sent  out.” 

“ It  is  a pity  you  didn’t  say  so,  in  good  time,  is  it  not  ? ” 
retorted  Carker,  coolly.  “ However,  I think  it’s  all  for 
the  best.  I really  think  it’s  all  for  the  best.  Hid  I men- 
tion that  there  was  something  like  a little  confidence  be- 
tween Miss  Dombey  and  myself.” 

“ No,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  sternly. 

“ I have  no  doubt,”  returned  Mr.  Carker,  after  an  im- 
pressive pause,  “ that  wherever  Gay  is,  he  is  much  bet- 
ter where  he  is,  than  at  home  here.  If  I were,  or  could 
be,  in  your  place,  I should  be  satisfied  of  that.  1 am 
quite  satisfied  of  it  myself.  Miss  Dombey  is  confiding 
amd  young — perhaps  hardly  proud  enough,  for  your 
daughter — if  she  have  a fault.  Not  that  that  is  much 
though,  I am  sure.  Will  you  check  these  balances  with 
me  ? ” 

Mr.  Dombey  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  instead  of  bend- 
ing over  the  papers  that  were  laid  before  him,  and  looked 
the  Manager  steadily  in  the  face.  The  Manager,  with 
his  eyelids  slightly  raised,  affected  to  be  glancing  at  his 
figures,  and  to  await  the  leisure  of  his  principal.  He 
showed  that  he  affected  this,  as  if  from  great  delicacy, 
and  with  a design  to  spare  Mr.  Dombey’s  feelings  ; and 
the  latter,  as  he  looked  at  him,  was  cognizant  of  his  in- 
tended consideration,  and  felt  that  but  for  it,  this  confi- 
dential Carker  would  have  said  a great  deal  more,  which 
he,  Mr.  Dombey,  was  too  proud  to  ask  for.  It  was  his 
way  in  business,  often.  Little  by  little,  Mr.  Dombey’s 
gaze  relaxed,  and  his  attention  became  diverted  to  the 


108 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


papers  before  bim  ; but  while  busy  with  the  occupation 
they  afforded  him,  he  frequently  stopped,  and  looked  at 
Mr.  Carker  again.  Whenever  he  did  so,  Mr.  Carker  was 
demonstrative,  as  before,  in  his  delicacy,  and  impressed 
it  on  his  great  chief  more  and  more. 

While  they  were  thus  engaged  ; and  under  the  skil- 
ful culture  of  the  Manager,  angry  thoughts  in  reference 
to  poor  Florence  brooded  and  bred  in  Mr.  Dombey’s 
breast,  usurping  the  place  of  the  cold  dislike  that  gener- 
ally reigned  there  ; Major  Bagstock,  much  admired  by 
the  old  ladies  of  Leamington,  and  followed  by  the  native, 
carrying  the  usual  amount  of  light  baggage,  straddled 
along  the  shady  side  of  the  way,  to  make  a morning  call 
on  Mrs.  Skewton.  It  being  mid-day  when  the  major 
reached  the  bower  of  Cleopatra,  he  had  the  good  for- 
tune to  find  his  princess  on  her  usual  sofa,  languishing 
over  a cup  of  coffee,  with  the  room  so  darkened  and 
shaded  for  her  more  luxurious  repose,  that  Withers, 
who  was  in  attendance  on  her,  loomed  like  a phantom 
page. 

‘‘  What  insupportable  creature  is  this,  coming  in  ! ” 
said  Mrs.  Skewton.  I cannot  bear  it.  Go  away,  who- 
ever you  are  ! 

'^You  have  not  the  heart  to  banish  J.  B.,  ma’am  !” 
said  the  major,  halting  midway,  to  remonstrate,  with  his 
cane  over  his  shoulder. 

Oh  it’s  you,  is  it  ? On  second  thoughts  you  may  en- 
ter,” observed  Cleopatra. 

The  major  entered  accordingly,  and  advancing  to  the 
sofa  pressed  her  charming  hand  to  his  lips. 

“Sit  down,”  said  Cleopatra,  listlessly  waving  her  fan, 
“ a long  way  off.  Don’t  come  too  near  me,  for  I am 
frightfully  faint  and  sensitive  this  morning,  and  you 
smell  of  the  sun.  You  are  absolutely  tropical,  ” 

“By  George,  ma’am,”  said  the  major,  “the  time  has 
been  when  Joseph  Bagstock  had  been  grilled  and  blis- 
tered by  the  sun  ; the  time  was,  when  he  was  forced, 
ma’am,  into  such  full  blow,  by  high  hothouse  heat  in  the 
West  Indies,  that  he  was  known  as  the  flower.  A man 
never  heard  of  Bagstock,  ma’am,  in  those  days  ; he  heard 
of  the  flower— the  flower  of  Our’s.  The  flower  may  have 
faded,  more  or  less,  ma’am,”  observed  the  major,  drop- 
ping into  a much  nearer  chair  than  had  been  indicated 
by  his  cruel  divinity,  “ but  it  is  a tough  plant  yet,  and 
constant  as  the  evergreen.” 

Here  the  major,  under  cover  of  the  dark  room,  shut 
up  one  eye,  rolled  his  head  like  a harlequin,  and,  in  his 
great  self-satisfaction,  perhaps  went  nearer  to  the  con- 
fines of  apoplexy  than  he  had  ever  gone  before. 

“ Where  is  Mrs.  Granger  ? ” inquired  Cleopatra  of  her 
page. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


109 


• Withers  believed  she  was  in  her  own  room. 

^‘Very  well,”  said  Mrs.  Skewton.  ‘‘Go  away,  and 
shut  the  door.  I am  engaged.  ” 

As  Withers  disappeared,  Mrs.  Skewton  turned  her 
head  languidly  towards  the  major,  without  otherwise 
moving,  and  asked  him  how  his  friend  waSo 

“Dombey,  ma'am,”  returned  the  major,  with  a face- 
tious gurgling  in  his  throat,  “ is  as  well  as  a man  inhiff 
condition  can  be.  His  condition  is  a desperate  one, 
ma’am.  He  is  touched,  is  Dombey.  Touched  ? ” cried 
the  major.  “He  is  bayonetted  through  the  body.” 

Cleopatra  cast  a.  sharp  look  at  the  major,  that  con- 
trasted forcibly  with  the  affected  drawl  in  which  she 
presently  said  : — 

“Major  Bagstock,  although  I know  but  little  of  the 
world, — nor  can  I really  regret  my  inexperience,  for  I 
fear  it  is  a false  place  : full  of  withering  conventionali- 
ties : where  nature  is  but  little  regarded,  and  where  the 
music  of  the  heart,  and  the  gushing  of  the  soul,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing,  which  is  so  truly  poetical,  is  seldom 
heard, — I cannot  misunderstand  your  meaning.  There 
is  an  allusion  to  Edith — to  my  extremely  dear  child,”  said 
Mrs.  Skewton,  tracing  the  outline  of  her  eyebrows  with 
her  forefinger,  “ in  your  words,  to  which  the  tenderest 
of  chords  vibrates  excessively  ! ” 

“Bluntness,  ma’am,”  returned  the  major,  “has  ever 
been  the  characteristic  of  the  Bagstock  breed.  You  are 
right.  Joe  admits  it.” 

“ And  that  allusion,”  pursued  Cleopatra,  “ would  in- 
volve one  of  the  most — if  not  positively  the  most — touch' 
ing,  and  thrilling*,  and  sacred  emotions  of  which  our 
sadly- fallen  nature  is  susceptible,  I conceive.” 

The  major  laid  his  hand  upon  his  lips,  and  wafted  a 
kiss  to  Cleopatra,  as  if  to  identify  the  emotion  in  ques- 
tion. 

“ I feel  that  I am  weak.  I feel  that  I am  wanting  in 
that  energy  which  should  sustain  a mama  : not  to  say  a 
parent  : on  such  a subject,”  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  trimming 
her  lips  with  the  laced  edge  of  her  pocket-handkerchief  ; 
“ but  I can  hardly  approach  a topic  so  excessively  mo- 
mentous to  my  dearest  Edith  without  a feeling  of  faint' 
ness.  Nevertheless,  bad  man,  as  you  have  boldly  re- 
marked upon  it,  and  as  it  has  occasioned  me  great  an- 
guish ; ” Mrs.  Skewton  touched  her  left  side  with  her 
fan  : “I  will  not  shrink  from  my  duty.” 

The  major,  under  cover  of  the  dimness,  swelled,  and 
swelled,  and  rolled  his  purple  face  about,  and  winked 
his  lobster  eye,  until  he  fell  into  a fit  of  wheezing,  which 
obliged  him  to  rise  and  take  a turn  or  two  about  the 
room,  before  his  fair  friend  could  proceed. 

“Mr.  Dombey,”  said  Mrs.  SkevTon,  when  she  at 


110 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


length  resumed,  was  obliging  enough,  now  many 
weeks  ago,  to  do  us  the  honour  of  visiting  us  here  ; in 
company,  my  dear  major,  with  yourself.  I acknowledge 
— ^let  me  be  open — that  it  is  my  failing  to  be  the  creature 
of  impulse,  and  to  wear  my  heart,  as  it  were,  outside.  I 
know  my  failing  full  well.  My  enemy  can  not  know  it 
better.  But  I am  not  penitent ; I would  rather  not  be 
frozen  by  the  heartless  world,  and  am  content  to  bear 
this  imputation  justly.'" 

Mrs.  Skewton  arranged  her  tucker,  pinched  her  wiry 
throat  to  give  it  a soft  surface,  and  went  on,  with  great 
complacency. 

It  gave  me  (my  dearest  Edith  too,  I am  sure)  infinite 
pleasure  to  receive  Mr.  Dombey.  Asa  friend  of  yours, 
my  dear  major,  we  were  naturally  disposed  to  be  prepos- 
sessed in  his  favour  ; and  I fancied  that  I observed  an 
amount  of  heart  in  Mr.  Dombey,  that  was  excessively  re- 
freshing. 

There  is  devilish  little  heart  in  Dombey  now,  ma’am,” 
said  the  major. 

« Wretched  man  ! ” cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  looking  at 
him  languidly,  ‘'pray  be  silent.” 

“ J.  B.  is  dumb,  ma’am,”  said  the  major. 

“Mr.  Dombey,”  pursued  Cleopatra,  smoothing  the 
rosy  hue  upon  her  cheeks,  “ accordingly  repeated  his 
visit ; and  possibly  finding  some  attraction  in  the  sim- 
plicity and  primitiveness  of  our  tastes — for  there  is  al- 
ways a charm  in  nature — it  is  so  very  sweet — became 
one  of  our  little  circle  every  evening.  Little  did  I think 
of  the  awful  responsibility  into  which  I plunged  when  I 
encouraged  Mr.  Dombey — to — ” 

“To  beat  up  these  quarters,  ma’am,”  suggested  Ma- 
jor Bagstock. 

“Coarse  person!”  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  “you  antici- 
pate my  meaning,  though  in  odious  language.” 

Here  Mrs.  Skewton  rested  her  elbow  on  the  little  table 
at  her  side,  and  sufering  her  wrist  to  droop  in  what  she 
considered  a graceful  and  becoming  manner,  dangled 
her  fan  to  and  fro,  and  lazily  admired  her  hand  while 
speaking. 

“ The  agony  I have  endured,”  she  said  mincingly, 

‘ ‘ as  the  truth  has  by  degrees  dawned  upon  me,  has  been 
too  exceedingly  terrific  to  dilate  upon.  My  whole  ex- 
istence is  bound  up  in  my  sweetest  Edith  ; and  to  see 
her  change  from  day  to  day — my  beautiful  pet,  who  has 
positively  garnered  up  her  heart  since  the  death  of  that 
most  delightful  creature.  Granger — is  the  most  affecting 
thing  in  the  w^orld.” 

Mrs.  Skewdon’s  world  was  not  a very  trying  one,  if 
one  might  judge  of  it  by  the  influence  of  its  most  affect- 
ing circumstance  upon  her  ; but  this  by  the  way. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


Ill 


''  Edith,”  simpered  Mrs.  Skewtoii,  ''  who  is  the  per- 
fect pearl  of  my  life,  is  said  to  resemble  me.  I believe 
we  are  alike.’’ 

There  is  one  man  in  the  world  who  never  will  ad- 
mit that  any  one  resembles  you,  ma’am,”  said  the  ma- 
jor ; “ and  that  man’s  name  is  old  Joe  Bagstock.” 

Cleopatra  made  as  if  she.j^ould  brain  the  flatterer  with 
her  fan,  but  relenting,  smiled  upon  him  and  proceeded  ; 

‘‘ If  my  charming  girl  inherits  any  advantages  from 
me,  wicked  one  ! ” : the  major,  was  the  wicked  one  : 
^‘she  inherits  also  my  foolish  nature.  She  has  great 
force  of  character — mine  has  been  said  to  be  immense, 
though  I don’t  believe  it — but  once  moved,  she  is  sus- 
ceptible and  sensitive  to  the  last  extent.  What  are  my 
feelings  when  I see  her  pining  ! They  destroy  me.” 

The  major  advancing  his  double  chin,  and  pursing  up 
his  blue  lips  into  a soothing  expression,  affected  the  pro- 
found est  sympathy. 

The  confidence,”  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  that  has  sub- 
sisted between  us — the  free  development  of  soul,  and 
openness  of  sentiment — is  touching  to  think  of.  We 
have  been  more  like  sisters  than  mama  and  child.” 

B.’s  own  sentiment,”  observed  the  major,  ^"ex- 
pressed by  J.  B.  fifty  thousand  times  ! ” 

""  Do  not  interrupt,  rude  man  1 ” said  Cleopatra. 
""What  are  my  feelings,  then,  when  I find  that  there  is 
one  subject  avoided  by  us  ! That  there  is  a what’s  his 
name  — a gulf — opened  between  us.  That  my  own  art- 
less Edith  is  changed  to  me  ! They  are  of  the  most 
poignant  description,  of  course.” 

The  major  left  his  chair,  and  took  one  nearer  to  the 
little  table. 

""  From  day  to  day  I see  this,  my  dear  major,”  pro- 
ceeded Mrs.  Skewton.  ""  From  day  to  day  I feel  this. 
Prom  hour  to  hour  I reproach  myself  for  that  excess  of 
faith  and  trustfulness  which  has  led  to  such  distressing 
consequences  ; and  almost  from  minute  to  minute,  I 
hope  that  Mr.  Dombey  may  explain  himself,  and  relieve 
the  torture  I undergo,  which  is  extremely  wearing.  But 
nothing  happens,  my  dear  major  ; I am  the  slave  of  .re- 
morse— take  care  of  the  coffee-cup  : you  are  so  very 
awkward — my  darling  Edith  is  an  altered  being  ; and  I 
really  don’t  see  what  is  to  be  d.one,  or  what  good  crea- 
ture I can  advise  with.” 

Major  Bagstock,  encouraged  perhaps  by  the  softened 
and  confidential  tone  into  which  Mrs.  Skewton,  after  sev- 
eral times  lapsing  into  it  for  a moment,  seemed  now  to 
have  subsided  for  good  : stretched  out  his  hand  across 
the  little  table,  and  said  with  a leer, 

""  Advise  with  Joe,  ma’am.” 

Then,  you  aggravating  monster,  ” said  Cleopatra* 


112 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


giving  one  liand  to  the  major,  and  tapping  his  knuckles 
with  her  fan,  which  she  held  in  the  other  : ‘‘  why  don’t 
you  talk  to  me  ? you  know  what  I mean.  Why  don’t 
You  tell  me  something  to  the  purpose  ? ” 

The  major  laughed,  and  kissed  the  hand  she  had  be= 
stowed  upon  him,  and  laughed  again,  immensely. 

Is  there  as  much  Heart  in  Mr.  Dombey  as  I gave  him 
credit  for ?”  languished  Cleopatra  tenderly.  ''Do  you 
think  he  is  in  earnest,  my  dear  major  ? Would  you  rec- 
ommend his  being  spoken  to,  or  his  being  left  alone? 
Now,  tell  me,  like  a dear  man,  what  you  would  ad- 
vise.” 

" Shall  vre  marry  him  to  Edith  Gr ranger,  ma’am?” 
chuckled  the  major  hoarsely. 

"Mysterious  creature?”  returned  Cleopatra,  bringing 
her  fan  to  bear  upon  the  major’s  nose.  " How  can  we 
marry  him  ?” 

"Shall  we  marry  him  to  Edith  Granger,  ma’am,  I 
say  ? ” chuckled  the  major  again. 

Mrs.  Skewton  returned  no  answer  in  words,  but  smiled 
upon  the  major  with  so  much  archness  and  vivacity,  that 
that  gallant  officer  considering  himself  challenged,  would 
have  imprinted  a kiss  on  her  exceedingly  red  lips,  but 
for  her  interposing  the  fan  with  a v^ry  winning  and  ju- 
venile dexterity.  It  might  have  been  in  modesty  ; it 
might  have  been  in  apprehension  of  some  danger  to  their 
bloom. 

" Dombey,  ma’am,”  said  the  major,  " is  a great  catch.” 

" Oh,  mercenary  wretch!”  cried  Cleopatra,  with  a 
little  shriek,  " I am  shocked.” 

" And  Dombey,  ma’am,”  pursued  the  major,  thrusting 
forward  his  head,  and  distending  his  eyes,  "is  in  earnest. 
Joseph  says  it  ; Bagstock  knows  it ; J.  B.  keeps  him  to  the 
mark.  Leave  Dombey  to  himself,  ma’am.  Dombey  is 
safe,  ma’am.  Do  as  you  have  done  ; do  no  more  ; and 
trust  to  J.  B.  for  the  end.” 

"You  really  think  so,  my  dear  major  ? ” returned  Cleo- 
patra, who  had  eyed  him  very  cautiously,  and  very 
searchingly,  in  spite  of  her  listless  bearing. 

" Sure  of  it,  ma’am,”  rejoined  the  major.  " Cleopatra 
the  peerless,  and  her  Antony  Bagstock,  will  often  speak 
of  this,  triumphantly,  when  sharing  the  elegance  and 
wealth  of  Edith  Dombey ’s  establishment.  Dombey’ s 
right  hand-man,  ma’am,’'’  said  the  major,  stopping  ab- 
ruptly in  a chuckle,  and  becoming  serious,  " has  arrived.  ” 

" This  morning  ?”  said  Cleopatra. 

" This  morning,  ma’am,”  returned  the  major.  " And 
Dombey’s  anxiety  for  his  arrival,  ma’am,  is  to  be  referred 
• — take  J.  B’s  word  for  this  ; for  Joe  is  de-vilish  sly” — 
the  major  tapped  his  nose,  and  screwed  up  one  of  his 
eyes  tight : which  did  not  enhance  his  native  beauty — 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


113 


**  to  liis  desire  that  what  is  in  the  wind  should  become 
knov/n  to  him,  without  Dombey’s  telling  and  consulting 
him.  For  Dombey  is  as  proud,  ma^am,^"  said  the  major, 
as  Lucifer.  ’’ 

charming  quality,”  lisped  Mrs.  Skewton  ; ''re- 
minding one  of  dearest  Edith.  ” 

" Well,  ma’am,”  said  the  major.  "I  have  thrown  out 
hints  already,  and  the  right-hand  man  understands  ’em ; 
and  I’ll  throw  out  more  before  the  day  is  done.  Dombey 
projected  this  morning  a ride  to  Warwick  Castle,  and  to 
Kenilworth,  to-morrow,  to  be  preceded  by  a breakfast 
with  us.  I undertook  the  delivery  of  this  invitation. 
Will  you  honour  us  so  far,  ma’am  ? ” said  the  major, 
swe]  ling  with  shortness  of  breath  and  slyness,  as  he  pro- 
duced a note,  addressed  to  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Skewton, 
by  favour  of  Major  Bagstock,  wherein  hers  ever  faith- 
fully, Paul  Dombey,  besought  her  and  her  amiable  and 
accomplished  daughter  to  consent  to  the  proposed  ex- 
cursion ; and  in  a postscript  unto  which,  the  same  ever 
faithfully  Paul  Dombey  entreated  to  be  recalled  to  the 
remembrance  of  Mrs.  Granger. 

"Hush  1”  said  Cleopatra,  suddenly,  "Edith  ! ” 

The  loving  mother  can  scarcely  be  described  as  re^ 
suming  her  insipid  and  affected  air  when  she  made  this 
exclamation  ; for  she  had  never  cast  it  off ; nor  was  it 
likely  that  she  ever  would  or  could,  in  any  other  place 
than  in  the  grave.  But  hurriedly  dismissing  whatever 
shadow  of  earnestness,  or  faint  confession  of  a purpose, 
laudable  or  wicked,  that  her  face,  or  voice,  or  manner, 
had,  for  the  moment,  betrayed,  she  lounged  upon  the 
couch,  her  most  insipid  and  most  languid  self  again,  as 
Edith  entered  the  room. 

Edith,  so  beautiful  and  stately,  but  so  cold  and  so  re- 
pelling. Who,  slightly  acknowledging  the  presence  of 
Major  Bagstock,  and  directing  a keen  glance  at  her 
mother,  drew  back  the  curtain  from  a window,  and  sat 
down  there,  looking  out. 

"My  dearest  Edith,”  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "where  on 
earth  have  you  been  ? I have  wanted  you,  my  love,  most 
sadly.” 

"You  said  you  were  engaged,  and  I stayed  away,”  she 
answered,  without  turning  her  head. 

"It  was  cruel  to  Old  Joe,  ma’am,”  said  the  major  in 
his  gallantry. 

"It  was  very  cruel,  I know,”  she  said,  still  looking 
out — and  said  with  such  calm  disdain  that  the  majorw^as 
discomfit  ted,  and  could  think  of  nothing  in  reply. 

"Major  Bagstock,  my  darling  Edith,”  drawled  her 
mother,  "who  is  generalFy  the  most  useless  and  dis- 
agreeable creature  in  the  world  : as  you  know—” 

"It  is  surely  not  worth  while,  mama,”  said  Edith, 


114 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


looking  round,  ''to  observe  tliese  forms  of  speech.  We 
are  quite  alone.  We  know  each  other. 

The  quiet  scorn  that  sat  upon  her  handsome  face — a 
scorn  that  evidently  lighted  on  herself,  no  less  than  them 
— was  so  intense  and  deep,  that  her  mother’s  simper,  for 
the  instant,  though  of  a hardy  constitution,  drooped 
before  it. 

"My  darling  girl,”  she  began  again. 

INot  woman  yet  ? ” said  Edith,  with  a smile. 

"How  very  odd  you  are  to-day,  my  dear!  Pray  let 
me  say,  my  love,  that  Major  Bagstock  has  brought  the 
kindest  of  notes  from  Mr.  Hombey,  proposing  that  we 
should  breakfast  with  him  to-morrow,  and  ride  to  War 
wick  and  Kenilworth.  Will  you  go,  Edith  ? ” 

"Will  1 go  I”  she  repeated,  turning  very  red,  and 
breathing  quickly  as  she  looked  round  at  her  mother. 

" I knew  you  would,  my  own,”  observed  the  latter 
carelessly.  " It  is,  as  you  say,  quite  a form  to  ask.  Here 
is  Mr.  Dombey’s  letter,  Edith.” 

"Thank  you.  I have  no  desire  to  read  it,”  was  her 
answer. 

Then  perhaps  I had  better  answer  it  myself,”  said 
Mrs.  Skewton,  " though  I had  thought  of  asking  you  to 
be  my  secretary,  darling.”  As  Edith  made  no  movement 
and  no  answer,  Mrs.  Skewton  begged  the  major  to  wheel 
her  little  table  nearer,  and  to  set  open  the  desk  it  con- 
tained, and  to  take  out  pen  and  paper  for  her  ; all  which 
congenial  offices  of  gallantry  the  major  discharged,  with 
much  submission  and  devotion. 

" Your  regards,  Edith,  my  dear  ? ” said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
pausing,  pen  in  hand,  at  the  postscript. 

" What  you  will,  mama,”  she  answered,  without  turn 
ing  her  head,  and  with  supreme  indifference. 

Mrs.  Skewton  wrote  what  she  would,  without  seeking 
for  any  more  explicit  directions,  and  handed  her  letter  to 
the  major,  who  receiving  it  as  a precious  charge,  made  a 
show  of  laying  it  near  his  heart,  but  was  fain  to  put  in 
the  pocket  of  his  pantaloons  on  account  of  the  insecurity 
of  his  waistcoat.  The  major  then  took  a very  polished 
and  chivalrous  farew^ell  of  both  ladies,  which  the  elder 
one  acknowledged  in  her  usual  manner,  while  the 
younger,  sitting  with  her  face  addressed  to  the  window,, 
bent  her  head  so  slightly  that  it  would  have  been  a 
greater  compliment  to  the  major  to  have  made  no  sign  at 
all,  and  to  have  left  him  to  infer  that  he  had  not  been 
heard  or  thought  of. 

"As  to  alteration  in  her,  sir,”  mused  the  major,  on  his 
way  back  ; on  which  expedition — the  afternoon  being 
sunny  and  hot — he  ordered  the  native  and  the  light  bag- 
gage to  the  front,  and  walked  in  the  shadow  of  that  ex- 
patriated prince  ; " as  to  alteration,  sir,  and  pining,  and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


115 


so  forth,  that  won’t  go  down  with  Joseph  Bagstoclc. 
None  of  that,  sir.  It  won’t  do  here.  But  as  to  thero 
being  something  of  a division  between  ’em — or  a gulf  as 
the  mother  calls  it— damme,  sir,  that  seems  true  enough. 
And  it’s  odd  enough  !.  Well,  sir  ! ” panted  the  major, 
Edith  Granger  and  Dombey  are  w^ell  matched  ; let  ’em 
fight  it  out ! Bagstock  backs  the  winner  ! ” 

The  major,  by  saying  these  tatter  words  aloud,  in  the 
vigour  of  his  thoughts  caused  the  unhappy  native  to 
stop,  and  turn  round,  in  the  belief  that  he  was  person- 
ally addressed.  Exasperated  to  the  last  degree  by  this 
act  of  insubordination,  the  major  (though  he  was  swelling 
with  enjoyment  of  his  own  humour,  at  the  moment  of 
its  occurrence)  instantly  thrust  his  cane  among  the  na- 
tive’s ribs,  and  continued  to  stir  him  up  at  short  inter- 
vals, all  the  way  to  the  hotel. 

Nor  was  the  major  less  exasperated  as  he  dressed  for 
dinner,  during  which  operation  the  dark  servant  under- 
went the  pelting  of  a shower  of  miscellaneous  objects, 
varying  in  size  from  a,  boot  to  a hair-brush,  and  includ- 
ing everything  that  came  within  his  master’s  reach.  For 
the  major  plumed  himself  on  having  the  native  in  a per- 
fect state  of  drill,  and  visited  the  least  departure  from 
strict  discipline  with  this  kind  of  fatigue  duty.  Add  to 
this,  that  he  maintained  the  native  about  his  person  as  a 
counter-irritant  against  the  gout  and  all  other  vexations, 
mental  as  well  as  bodily  ; and  the  native  would  appear 
have  earned  his  pay — which  was  not  large. 

At  length  the  major  having  disposed  of  all  the  missiles 
that  were  convenient  to  his  hand,  and  having-  called  the 
native  so  many  new  names  as  must  have  given  him  great 
occasion  to  marvel  at  the  resources  of  the  English  lan- 
guage, submitted  to  have  his  cravat  put  on ; and  being 
dressed,  and  finding  himself  in  a brisk  flow  of  spirits 
after  this  exercise,  went  down-stairs  to  enliven  Dom- 
bey ” and  his  right-hand  man. 

Dombey  was  not  yet  in  the  room,  but  the  right-hand 
man  was  there,  and  his  dental  treasures  were,  as  usual, 
ready  for  the  major. 

Well,  sir  ! ” said  the  major.  How  have  you  passed 
the  time  since  I had  the  happiness  of  meeting  you? 
Have  you  walked  at  all  ? ” 

‘‘A  saunter  of  barely  half  an  hour’s  duration,”  re" 
turned  Carker.  We  have  been  so  much  occupied.” 
‘‘Business,  eh?”  said  the  major. 

“ A variety  of  little  matters  necessary  to  foe  gone 
through,”  replied  Carker.  “But  do  you  know — this  is 
.quite  unusual  with  me,  educated  in  a distrustful  school, 
and  who  am  not  generally  disposed  to  be  communica- 
tive,” he  said,  breaking;  off,  and  speaking  in  a charming 


116 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tone  of  frankness— but  I feel  quite  confidential  with 
you,  Major  Bagstock.^^ 

"‘You  do  me  honour,  sir,”  returned  the  major.  “ You 
may  be.” 

“Do  you  know  thexi,”  pursued  Carker,  “that  I have 
rot  found  my  friend — our  friend,  I ought  rather  to  call 
him — 

“ Meaning  Dombey,  sir?”  cried  the  major.  “ You  see 
me,  Mr.  Carker,  standing  here  ! J.  B.  ? ” 

He  was  puffy  enough  to  see,  and  blue  enough  ; and  Mr. 
Carker  intimated  that  he  had  that  pleasure. 

" ‘ Then  you  see  a man,  sir,  who  would  go  through  fire 
and  water  to  serve  Dombey,”  returned  Major  Bagstock. 

Mr.  Carker  smiled,  and  said  he  was  sure  of  it.  “Do 
you  know,  major,”  he  proceeded  : “to  resume  where  I 
left  off  : that  I have  not  found  our  friend  so  attentive  tc 
business  to-day,  as  usual  ?” 

“No?  ” observed  the  delighted  major. 

“ I have  found  him  a little  abstracted,  and  with  his  at 
tention  disposed  to  wander,”  said  Carker. 

“ By  Jove,  sir,”  cried  the  major,  “ there’s  a lady  in  tha 
case.” 

“ Indeed,  I begin  to  believe  there  really  is,”  returned 
Carker.  “ I thought  you  might  be  jesting  when  you 
seemed  to  hint  at  it ; for  I know  you  military  men—” 

The  major  gave  the  horse’s  cough,  and  shook  his  head 
and  shoulders,  as  much  as  to  say,  “ Well ! we  are  gay 
dogs,  there’s  no  denying.”  He  then  seized  Mr.  Carker 
by  the  button-hole,  and  with  starting  eyes  whispered  in 
his  ear  that  she  was  a woman  of  extraordinary  charms, 
sir.  That  she  was  a young  widow,  sir.  That  she  was  of 
a fine  family,  sir.  That  Dombey  was  over  head  and  ears 
in  love  with  her,  sir,  and  that  it  would  be  a good  m.atch 
on  both  sides  ; for  she  had  beauty,  blood,  and  talent,  and 
Dombey  had  fortune  ; and  what  more  could  any  couple 
have?  Hearing  Mr.  Dombey’s  footsteps  without,  the 
major  cut  himself  short  by  saying,  that  Mr.  Carker  would 
see  her  to-morrow  morning,  and  would  judge  for  himself ; 
and  between  his  mental  excitement,  and  the  exertion  of 
saying  all  this  in  wheezy  whispers,  the  major  sat  gurg- 
ling in  the  throat  and  watering  at  the  eyes,  until  dinnei? 
was  ready. 

The  major,  like  some  other  noble  animals,  exhibited 
himself  to  great  advantage  at  feeding  time.  On  this  oc- 
casion, he  shone  resplendent  at  one  end  of  the  table,  sup- 
ported by  the  milder  lustre  of  Mr.  Dombey  at  the  other ; 
while  Carker  on  one  side  lent  his  ray  to  either  light,  ol 
suffered  it  to  merge  into  both,  as  occasion  arose. 

During  the  first  course  or  two,  the  major  was  usually 
grave  ; for  the  native,  in  obedience  to  general  orders, 
secretly  issued,  collected  every  sauce  and  cruet  round 


DOMBEY  aND  SON. 


117 


Mm,  and  gave  him  a great  deal  to  do,  in  taking  out  th@ 
stoppers,  and  mixing  up  the  contents  in  his  plate.  Be- 
sides which,  the  native  had  private  zests  and  flavours  on 
a side-table,  with  which  the  major  daily  scorched  him- 
self ; to  say  nothing  of  strange  machines  out  of  which 
he  spirted  unknown  liquids  into  the  major's  drink.  But 
on  this  occasion.  Major  Bagstock,  even  amidst  these 
many  occupations,  found  time  to  be  social ; and  his  so- 
ciality consisted  in  excessive  slyness  for  the  behoof  of 
Mr.  Carker,  and  the  betrayal  of  Mr.  Dombey's  state  of 
mind. 

'"Dombey,”  said  the  major,  ‘‘you  don't  eat;  what's 
the  matter?" 

“Thank  you,"  returned  that  gentleman,  “I  am  doing 
very  well ; I have  no  great  appetite  to-day." 

“ Why,  Dombey,  what's  become  of  it  ? " asked  the  ma- 
jor. “ Where's  it  gone  ? You  haven't  left  it  with  our 
friends.  I'll  swear,  for  I can  answer  for  their  having  none 
to-day  at  luncheon.  I can  answer  for  one  of  'em,  at 
least ; I won't  say  which." 

Then  the  major  winked  at  Carker,  and  became  so 
frightfully  sly,  that  his  dark  attendant  was  obliged  to 
pat  him  on  the  back,  without  orders,  or  he  would  prob- 
ably have  disappeared  under  the  table. 

In  a later  stage  of  the  dinner : that  is  to  say,  when  the 
joiative  stood  at  the  major's  elbow  ready  to  serve  the 
flrst  bottle  of  champagne  : the  major  became  still  slyer. 

“ Fill  this  to  the  brim,  you  scoundrel,"  said  the  major, 
folding  up  his  glass.  “Fill  Mr.  Carker 's  to  the  brim 
too.  And  Mr.  Dombey 's  too.  By  Gad,  gentlemen," 
said  the  major,  winking  at  his  new  friend,  while  Mr. 
Dombey  looked  into  his  plate  with  a conscious  air, 
“ we'll  consecrate  this  glass  of  wine  to  a divinity  whom 
Joe  is  proud  to  know,  and  at  a distance  humbly  and 
reverently  to  admire.  Edith,"  said  the  major,  “is  her 
name  ; angelic  Edith  ! " 

“ To  angelic  Edith  !"  cried  the  smiling  Carker. 

“ Edith,  by  all  means,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

The  entrance  of  the  waiters  with  new  dishes  caused 
the  major  to  be  slyer  yet,  but  in  a more  serious  vein. 
“ For  though,  among  ourselves,  Joe  Bagstock  mingles 
jest  and  earnest  on  this  subject,  sir,"  said  the  major, 
laying  his  finger  on  his  lips,  and  speaking  half  apart  to 
Carker,  “ he  holds  that  name  too  sacred  to  be  made  the 
property  of  these  fellows,  or  any  fellows.  Not  a word, 
sir,  while  they  are  here  ! " 

This  was  respectful  and  becoming  on  the  major's  part, 
and  Mr.  Dombey  plainly  felt  it  so.  Although  embar- 
rassed in  his  own  frigid  way,  by  the  majors  allusions, 
Mr.  Dombey  had  no  objection  to  such  rallying,  it  was 
clear,  but  rather  courted  it.  Perhaps  the  major  had. 


118 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


been  pretty  near  tlie  truth,  when  lie  had  divined  that 
morning  that  the  great  man  who  was  too  haughty 
formally  to  consult  with,  or  confide  in  his  prime  minister, 
on  such  a matter,  yet  wished  him  to  be  fully  possessed  of 
it.  Let  this  be  how  it  may,  he  often  glanced  at  Mr, 
Carker  while  the  major  plied  his  light  artillery,  and 
seemed  watchful  of  its  effect  upon  him. 

But  the  major,  having  secured  an  attentive  listener, 
and  a smiler,«'who  had  not  his  match  in  all  the  world— 
'‘in  short,  a de-vilish  intelligent  and  agreeable  fellow,” 
as  he  often  afterwards  declared — was  not  going  to  let 
him  off  with  a little  slyness  personal  to  Mr.  Dombey. 
Therefore,  on  the  removal  of  the  cloth,  the  major  de- 
veloped  himself  as  a choice  spirit  in  the  broader  and 
more  comprehensive  range  of  narrating  regimental 
stories,  and  cracking  regimental  jokes,  which  he  did 
with  such  prodigal  exuberance,  that  Carker  was  (or 
feigned  to  be)  quite  exhausted  with  laughter  and  ad- 
miration ; while  Mr.  Dombey  looked  on  over  his  starched 
cravat,  like  the  major’s  proprietor,  or  like  a stately  show- 
man who  was  glad  to  see  his  bear  dancing  well. 

When  the  major  was  too  hoarse  v/ith  meat  and  drink, 
and  the  display  of  his  social  powers  to  render  himself  in- 
telligible any  longer,  they  adjourned  to  coffee.  After 
which,  the  major  inquired  of  Mr.  Carker  the  manager, 
with  little  apparent  hope  of  an  answer  in  the  affirmative, 
if  he  played  picquet. 

“ Yes,  I play  picquet  a little,”  said  Mr.  Carker. 

“ Backgammon,  perhaps  ?”  observed  the  major  hesi- 
tating. 

“ Yes,  I play  backgammon  a little  too,”  replied  the 
man  of  teeth. 

“Carker  plays  at  all  games,  I believe,”  said  * Mr. 
Dombey,  laying  himself  on  a sofa  like  a man  of  w'ood 
without  a hinge  or  a joint  in  him  ; “ and  plays  them 
well.” 

In  sooth,  he  played  the  two  in  question,  to  such  per- 
fection, that  the  major  was  astonished,  and  asked  him, 
at  random,  if  he  played  chess. 

“Yes,  I play  chess  a little,”  answered  Carker.  “I 
have  sometimes  played,  and  won  a game — it’s  a mere 
trick — without  seeing  the  board.” 

“By  Gad,  sir!”  said  the  major,  staring,  “you’re  a 
contrast  to  Dombey,  who  plays  nothing.  ” 

“ Oh  ! He  ! ” returned  the  manager.  “ He  has  never 
had  occasion  to  acquire  such  little  arts.  To  men  like 
me,  they  are  sometimes  useful.  As  at  present  Major 
Bagstock,  when  they  enable  me  to  take  a hand  with 
you.” 

it  might  be  only  the  false  mouth,  so  smooth  and  wide  ; 
^nd  yet  there  seemed  to  lurk  beneath  the  humility  and 


DOMBBY  AND  SON. 


119 


subserviency  of  tbis  short  speech,  a something  like  a 
snarl  ; and  for  a moment,  one  might  have  thought  that 
the  white  teeth  were  prone  to  bite  the  hand  they  fawned 
upon.  But  the  major  thought  nothing  about  it ; and 
Mr.  Dombey  lay  meditating  with  his  eyes  half  shut  during 
the  whole  of  the  play,  which  lasted  until  bed-time. 

By  that  time,  Mr.  Carker,  though  the  winner,  had 
mounted  high  into  the  major's  good  opinion,  insomuch, 
that  when  he  left  the  major  at  his  own  room  before  going 
to  bed,  the  major,  as  a special  attention,  sent  the  native — 
who  always  rested  on  a mattress,  spread  upon  the  ground 
at  his  master's  door — along  the  gallery,  to  light  him  to 
Ms  room  in  state. 

There  was  a faint  blur  on  the  surface  of  the  mirror  in 
Mr.  Carker's  chamber,  and  its  reflection  was,  perhaps,  a 
false  one.  But  it  showed,  that  night,  the  image  of  a 
man,  who  saw,  in  his  fancy,  a crowd  of  people  slumber- 
ing on  the  ground  at  his  feet,  like  the  poor  native  at  his 
master's  door  : who  picked  his  way  among  them  : looking 
down  maliciously  enough  : but  trod  upon  no  upturned 
face—as  yet. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Beeper  Shadows. 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  rose  with  the  lark,  and  went 
out,  walking  in  the  summer  day.  His  meditations:— and 
he  meditated  with  contracted  brows  while  he  strolled 
along— hardly  seemed  to  soar  as  high  as  the  lark,  or  to 
mount  in  that  direction  ; rather  they  kept  close  to  their 
nest  upon  the  earth,  and  looked  about,  among  the  dust 
and  worms.  But  there  was  not  a bird  in  the  air,  singing 
unseen,  farther  beyond  the  reach  of  human  eye  than  Mr. 
Carker's  thoughts.  He  had  had  his  face  so  perfectly 
under  control,  that  few  could  say  more,  in  distinct  terms, 
of  its  expression,  than  that  it  smiled  or  that  it  pondered. 
It  pondered  now,  intently.  As  the  lark  rose  higher,  he 
sank  deeper  in  thought.  As  the  lark  poured  out  her 
melody  clearer  and  stronger,  he  fell  into  a graver  and 
profounder  silence.  At  length,  v/hen . the  lark  came 
headlong  down,  with  an  accumulating  stream  of  song, 
and  dropped  among  the  green  wheat  near  him,  rippling 
in  the  breath  of  the  morning  like  a river,  he  sprang  up 
from  his  reverie,  and  looked  round  with  a sudden  smile, 
as  courteous  and  as  soft  as  if  he  had  had  numerous  ob- 
servers to  propitiate  : nor  did  he  relapse,  after  being 
thus  awakened  ; but  clearing  his  face,  like  one  who  be- 
thought himself  that  it  might  otherwise  wrinkle  and  tell 
tales,  went  smiling  on,  as  if  for  practice, 


120 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DiCKENS. 


Perhaps  with  an  eye  to  first  impressions,  Mr.  Carker 
was  very  carefully  and  trimiy  dressed,  that  morning. 
Though  always  somewhat  formal  in  his  dress,  in  imita- 
tion of  the  great  man  whom  he  served,  he  stopped  short 
of  the  extent  of  Mr.  Dombey’s  stiffness  : at  once,  per- 
haps, because  he  knew  it  to  be  ludicrous,  and  because 
in  doing  so  he  found  another  means  of  expressing  his 
sense  of  the  difference  and  distance  between  them. 
Some  people  quoted  him  indeed,  in  this  respect,  as  a 
pointed  commentary,  and  not  a flattering  one,  on  his  icy 
patron— but  the  world  is  prone  to  misconstruction,  and 
Mr.  Carker  was  not  accountable  for  its  bad  propensity. 

Clean  and  florid  : with  his  light  complexion,  fading  as 
it  were,  in  the  sun,  and  his  dainty  step  enhancing  the 
softness  of  the  turf : Mr.  Carker  the  manager  strolled 
about  the  meadows,  and  green  lanes,  and  glided  among 
avenues  of  trees,  until  it  was  time  to  return  to  break- 
fast. Taking  a nearer  way  back,  Mr.  Carker  pursued 
it,  airing  his  teeth,  and  said  aloud  as  he  did  so,  "‘Now 
to  see  the  second  Mrs.  Dombey  I ” 

He  had  strolled  beyond  the  town,  and  re-entered  it  by 
^ pleasant  walk,  where  there  was  a deep  shade  of  leafy 
trees,  and  where  there  were  a few  benches  here  and 
there  for  those  who  chose  to  rest.  It  not  being  a place 
of  general  resort  at  any  hour,  and  wearing  at  that  time 
of  the  still  morning  the  air  of  being  quite  deserted  and 
retired,  Mr.  Carker  had  it,  or  thought  he  had  it,  all  to 
himself.  So,  with  the  whim  of  an  idle  man,  to  whom 
there  yet  remained  twenty  minutes  for  reaching  a des- 
tination easily  accessible  in  ten,  Mr.  Carker  threaded  the 
great  boles  of  the  trees,  and  went  passing  in  and  out, 
before  this  one  and  behind  that,  weaving  a chain  of 
footsteps  on  the  dewy  ground. 

But  he  found  he  was  mistaken  in  supposing  there  was 
no  one  in  the  grove,  for  as  he  softly  rounded  the  trunk 
of  one  itarge  tree,  on  which  the  obdurate  bark  was 
knotted  and  overlapped  like  the  hide  of  a rhinoceros  or 
some  kindred  monster  of  the  ancient  days  before  the 
flood,  he  saw  an  unexpected  flgure  sitting  on  a bench 
near  at  hand,  about  which,  in  another  moment,  he 
would  have  wound  the  chain  he  was  making*. 

It  v/as  that  of  a lady,  elegantly  dressed  and  very  hand- 
some, whose  dark  proud  eyes  were  flxed  upon  the 
ground,  and  in  whom  some  passion  or  struggle  was  rag- 
ing. For  as  she  sat  looking  down,  she  held  a corner  of 
her  under  lip  within  her  mouth,  her  bosom  heaved,  her 
nostrils  quivered,  her  head  trembled,  indignant  tears 
were  on  her  cheek,  and  her  foot  was  set  upon  the  moss 
as  though  she  would  have  crushed  it  into  nothing.  And 
yet  almost  the  self-same  glance  that  showed  him  this, 
showed  him  the  self  same  lady  rising  with  a scornful  air 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


121 


of  weariness  and  lassitude,  and  turning  away  with  noth- 
ing expressed  in  face  or  figure  but  careless  beauty  and 
imperious  disdain. 

A withered  and  very  ugly  old  woman,  dressed  not  so 
much  like  a gipsey  as  like  any  of  that  medley  race  of 
vagabonds  who  tramp  about  the  country,  begging,  and 
stealing,  and  tinkering,  and  weaving  rushes,  by  turns, 
or  all  together,  had  been  observing  the  lady,  too  ; for, 
as  she  rose,  this  second  figure,  strangely  confronting  the 
first,  scrambled  up  from  the  ground—out  of  it,  it  almost 
appeared— and  stood  in  the  way. 

‘‘  Let  me  tell  your  fortune,  my  pretty  lady,”  said  the 
old  woman  munching  with  her  jaws,  as  if  the  Death^s 
head  beneath  her  yellow  skin  were  impatient  to  get  out. 
can  tell  it  for  myself,’'  was  the  reply. 

Ay,  ay,  pretty  lady  ; but  not  right.  You  didn’t  tell 
it  right  when  you  were  sitting  there.  I see  you  ! Give 
me  a piece  of  silver,  pretty  lady,  and  I’ll  tell  your  for- 
tune true.  There’s  riches,  pretty  lady,  in  your  face.” 

I know,”  returned  the  lady,  passing  her  with  a dark 
smile,  and  a proud  step.  I knew  it  before.” 

Wliat ! You  won’t  give  me  nothing?”  cried  the  old 
woman.  ‘‘  You  won’t  give  me  nothing  to  tell  your  for- 
tune, pretty  lady  ? How  much  will  you  give  me  not  to 
tell  it,  then  ? Give  me  something,  or  I’ll  call  it  after 
ydu  ! ” croaked  the  old  woman,  passionately. 

Mr.  Carker,  whom  the  lady  was  about  to  pass  close, 
slinking  against  his  tree  as  she  crossed  to  gain  the  path, 
advanced  so  as  to  meet  her,  and  pulling  olf  his  hat  as 
she  went  by,  bade  the  old  woman  hold  her  peace.  The 
lady  acknowledged  his  interference  with  an  inclination 
of  the  head,  and  went  her  way. 

“You  give  me  something  then,  or  I’ll  call  it  after 
her  ! ” screamed  the  old  woman,  throwing  up  her  arms, 
and  pressing  forward  against  bis  outstretched  hand. 
“Or  come,”  she  added,  dropping  her  voice  suddenly, 
looking  at  him  earnestly,  and  seeming  in  a moment  to 
forget  the  object  of  her  wrath,  “give  me  something,  or 
I’ll  call  it  after  yon  I ” 

“After  me,  old  lady?  ” returned  the  manager,  putting 
his  hand  in  liis  pocket, 

“Yes,”  said  the  w^oman,  steadfast  in  her  scrutiny,  and 
holding  out  her  shrivelled  hand,  “/know  ! ” 

“What  do  you  know?”  demanded  Carker,  throwing 
her  a shilling.  “ Ho  you  know  who  the  handsome  lady 
is?” 

Munching  like  that  sailor’s  wife  of  yore,  who  had 
chestnuts  in  her  lap,  and  scowding  like  the  witch  who 
asked  for  some  in  vain,  the  old  woman  picked  the  shil- 
ling up,  and  going  backwards,  like  a crab,  or  like  a heap 
of  crabs  ; for  her  alternately  expanding  and  contracting 
VoL.  12  —h' 


122 


WORKS  OP  CHART.es  DICKENS. 


hands  might  have  represented  two  of  that  species,  and 
her  creeping  face,  some  half-a-dozen  more  : crouched  on 
the  veinous  root  of  an  old  tree,  pulled  out  a short  black 
pipe  from  within  the  crown  of  her  bonnet,  lighted  it 
with  a match,  and  smoked  in  silence,  looking  fixedly  at 
her  questioner. 

Mr.  Carker  laughed,  and  turned  upon  his  heel. 

Good  ! ” said  the  old  woman.  One  child  dead,  and 
one  child  living  : one  wife  dead,  and  one  wife  coming. 
Go  and  meet  her  ! ” 

In  spite  of  himself,  the  manager  looked  round  again, 
and  stopped.  The  old  woman,  who  had  not  removed 
her  pipe  and  was  munching  and  mumbling  while  she 
smoked,  as  if  in  conversation  with  an  invisible  familiar, 
pointed  with  her  finger  in  the  direction  he  was  going, 
and  laughed. 

What  was  that  you  said,  Beldamite?’'  he  demanded. 

The  woman  mumbled,  and  chattered,  and  smoked,  and 
still  pointed  before  him  ; but  remained  silent.  Mutter- 
ing a farewell  that  was  not  complimentary,  Mr.  Carker 
pursued  his  way  ; but  as  he  turned  out  of  that  place, 
and  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  the  root  of  the  old  -tree, 
he  could  yet  see  the  finger  pointing  before  him,  and 
thought  he  heard  the  woman  screaming,  ‘‘  Go  and  meet 
her ! ” 

Preparations  for  a choice  repast  were  completed,  he 
found,  at  the  hotel  ; and  Mr.  Dombey,  and  the  major, 
and  the  breakfast,  were  awaiting  the  ladies.  Individual 
constitution  has  much  to  do  with  the  development  of 
such  facts,  no  doubt ; but  in  this  case,  appetite  carried 
it  hollow  over  the  tender  passion ; Mr.  Dombey  being 
very  cool  and  collected,  and  the  major  fretting  and  fum- 
ing in  a state  of  violent  heat  and  irritation.  At  length 
the  door  was  thrown  open  by  the  native,  and,  after  a 
pause,  occupied  by  her  languishing  along  the  gallery,  a 
very  blooming,  but  not  very  youthful  lady  appeared. 

‘‘My  dear  Mr.  Dombey,’'  said  the  lady,  “ I am  afraid 
we  are  late,  but  Edith  has  been  out  already  looking  for 
a favourable  point  of  view  for  a sketch,  and  kept  me 
waiting  for  her.  Falsest  of  majors,”  giving  him  her 
little  finger,  '‘how  do  you  do?” 

"Mrs.  Skewton,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "let  me  gratify 
my  friend  Carker  : ” Mr.  Dombey  unconsciously  empha- 
sized the  word  friend,  as  saying  " no  really  ; I do  allow 
him  to  take  credit  for  that  distinction;”  "by  present- 
ing him  to  you.  You  have  heard  me  mention  Mr.  Car- 
ker.” 

"I  am  charmed,  I am  sure,”  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  gra- 
ciously. 

Mr.  Carker  was  charmed,  of  course.  Would  he  have 
been  more  charmed  on  Mr.  Dombey’s  behalf,  if  Mrs. 


1.- . 


124 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Skewton  had  been  (as  he  at  first  supposed  her)  the  Edith 
whom  they  had  toasted  over  night  ? ” 

Why,  where,  for  Heaven’s  sake,  is  Edith?”  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Skewton,  looking  round.  Still  at  the 
door,  giving  Withers  orders  about  the  mounting  of  those 
drawings  ! My  dear  Mr.  Dombey,  will  you  have  the 
kindness — ” 

Mr.  Dombey  was  already  gone  to  seek  her.  Next 
moment  he  returned,  bearing  on  his  arm  the  same  ele- 
gantly dressed  and  very  handsome  lady  whom  Mr.  Car- 
ker  had  encountered  underneath  the  trees. 

‘‘  Carker — ” began  Mr.  Dombey.  But  their  recogni- 
tion of  each  other  was  so  manifest,  that  Mr.  Dombey 
stopped  surprised. 

‘"I  am  obliged  to  the  gentleman,”  said  Edith,  with  a 
stately  bend,  ‘'for  sparing  me  some  annoyance  from  an 
importunate  beggar  just  now.” 

“I  am  obliged  to  my  good  fortune,”  said  Mr.  Carker, 
bowing  low,  “for  the  opportunity  of  rendering  so  slight 
a service  to  one  whose  servant  I am  proud  to  fe.” 

As  her  eye  rested  on  him  for  an  instant,  and  then 
lighted  on  the  ground,  he  saw  in  its  bright  and  searching 
glance  a suspicion  that  he  had  not  come  up  at  the  mo- 
ment of  his  interference,  but  had  secretly  observed  her 
sooner.  As  he  saw  that,  she  saw  in  his  eye  that  her  dis- 
trust was  not  without  foundation. 

“Really,”  cried  Mrs.  Skew’ton,  who  had  taken  this 
opportunity  of  inspecting  Mr.  Carker  through  her  glass, 
and  satisfying  herself  (as  she  lisped  audibly  to  the  ma- 
jor) that  he  was  all  heart ; “really  now,  this  is  one  of 
the  most  enchanting  coincidences  that  I ever  heard  of 
The  idea  I My  dearest  Edith,  there  is  such  an  obvious 
destiny  in  it,  that  really  one  might  almost  be  induced 
to  cross  one’s  arms  upon  one’s  frock,  and  say,  like  those 
wicked  Turks,  there  is  no  What’ s-his -name  but  Thing- 
ummy, and  What-you-may-call-it  is  his  prophet ! ” 

Edith  deigned  no  revision  of  this  extraordinary  quota- 
tion from  the  Koran,  but  Mr.  Dombey  felt  it  necessary 
to  offer  a few  polite  remarks. 

“ It  gives  me  great  pleasure,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with 
cumbrous  gallantry,  “that  a gentleman  so  nearly  con- 
nected with  myself  as  Carker  is,  should  have  had  the 
honour  and  happiness  of  rendering  the  least  assistance 
to  Mrs.  Granger,”  Mr.  Dombey  bowed  to  her.  “ But  it 
gives  me  some  pain,  and  it  occasions  me  to  be  really  en- 
vious of  Carker  ; ” he  unconsciously  laid  stress  on  these 
words,  as  sensible  that  they  must  appear  to  involve  a 
very  surprising  proposition  ; “ envious  of  Carker,  that  I 
had  not  that  honour  and  that  happiness  myself.”  Mr. 
Dombey  bowed  again.  Edith,  saving  for  a curl  of  her 
lip,  was  motionless. 


BOMBEY  AND  SON. 


125 


‘'By  tlie  Lord,  sir,”  cried  the  major,  bursting  into 
speech  at  sight  of  the  waiter,  who  was  come  to  announce 
breakfast,  “ it’s  an  extraordinary  thing  to  me  that  no 
one  can  have  the  honour  and  happiness  of  shooting  all 
such  beggars  through  the  head  without  being  brought 
to  book  for  it.  But  here’s  an  arm  for  Mrs.  &anger,  if 
she’ll  do  J.  B.  the  honour  to  accept  it ; and  the  greatest 
service  Joe  can  render  you,  ma’am,  just  now,  is,  to  lead 
you  in  to  table  ! ” 

With  this,  the  major  gave  his  arm  to  Edith  ; Mr.  Dom- 
bey  led  the  way  with  Mrs.  Skewton  ; Mr.  Carker  went 
last,  smiling  on  the  party. 

"I  am  quite  rejoiced,  Mr.  Carker,”  said  the  lady- 
mother,  at  breakfast,  after  another  approving  survey  of 
him  through  her  glass,  “that  you  have  timed  your  visit 
so  happily,  as  to  go  with  us  to-day.  It  is  the  most  en- 
chanting expedition  !” 

“ Any  expedition  would  be  enchanting  in  such  society,’^ 
returned  Carker  ; “but  I believe  it  is,  in  itself,  full  of 
interest.” 

“Oh  ! ” cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  with  a faded  little  scream 
of  rapture,  “the  castle  is  charming  ! — associations  of  the 
middle  ages — and  all  that — which  is  so  truly  exquisite. 
Don’t  you  dote  upon  the  middle  ages,  Mr.  Carker  ? ” 

“Very  much,  indeed,”  said  Mr.  Carker. 

“ Such  charming  times  !”  cried  Cleopatra.  “So  full 
of  faith  ! So  vigorous  and  forcible  ! So  picturesque  I 
So  perfectly  removed  from  commonplace  ! Oh  dear  ! If 
they  v/ould  only  leave  us  a little  more  of  the  poetry  of 
existence  in  these  terrible  days  ! ” 

Mrs.  Skewton  was  looking  sharp  after  Mr.  Dombey  all 
the  time  she  said  this,  who  was  looking  at  Edith  : who 
was  listening,  but  who  never  lifted  up  her  eyes. 

“We  are  dreadfully  real,  Mr.  Carker,”  said  Mrs. 
Skewton  ; “ are  we  not  ? ” 

Few  people  had  less  reason  to  complain  of  their  reality 
than  Cleopatra,  who  had  as  much  that  was  false  about 
her  as  could  v/ell  go  to  the  composition  of  anybody  with  a 
real  individual  existence.  But  Mr.  Carker  commiserated 
our  reality  nevertheless,  and  agreed  that  we  were  very 
hardly  used  in  that  regard. 

“ Pictures  at  the  castle,  quite  divine  ! ” said  Cleopatra. 

'I  hope  you  dote  upon  pictures?” 

“ I assure  you,  Mrs.  Skewton,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with 
solemn  encouragement  of  his  manager,  “ that  Carker 
has  a very  good  taste  for  pictures  ; quite  a natural  power 
of  appreciating  them.  He  is  a very  creditable  artist 
himself.  He  will  be  delighted,  I am  sure,  with  Mrs. 
Granger’s  taste  and  skill.” 

“ Damme,  sir ! ” cried  Major  Eagstock,  “ my  opinion 


126 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


is,  that  you’re  the  admirable  Carker,  and  can  do  any» 
thing.” 

“ Oh  !”  smiled  Carker,  with  humility,  ‘"‘you  are  much 
too  sanguine.  Major  Bagstock.  I can  do  very  little.  But 
Mr.  Dombey  is  so  generous  in  his  estimation  of  any  tri- 
vial  accomplishment  a manJike  myself  may  find  it  almost 
necessary  to  acquire,  and  to  which,  in  his  very  different 
sphere,  he  is  far  superior,  that—”  Mr.  Carker  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  deprecating  further  praise,  and  said  no 
more. 

All  this  time,  Edith  never  raised  her  eyes,  unless  to 
glance  towards  her  mother  when  that  lady’s  fervent 
spirit  shone  forth  in  words.  But  as  Carker  ceased,  she 
looked  at  Mr..  Dombey  for  a moment.  For  a moment 
only  ; but  with  a transient  gleam  of  scornful  wonder  on 
her  face,  not  lost  on  one  observer,  who  was  smiling 
round  the  board. 

Mr.  Dombey  caught  the  dark  eyelash  in  its  descent, 
and  took  the  opportunity  of  arresting  it. 

You  have  been  to  Warwick  often,  unfortunately  ? ” 
said  Mr.  Dombey. 

Several  times.” 

The  visit  will  be  tedious  to  you,  I am  afraid.” 

""  Oh  no  ; not  at  all.” 

''  Ah  ! You  are  like  your  cousin  Feenix,  my  dearest 
Edith,”  said  Mrs.  Skewton.  ''He  has  been  to  War- 
wick Castle  fifty  times,  if  he  has  been  there  once  ; yet 
if  he  came  to  Leamington  to-morrow— -I  wish  he  would, 
dear  angel  ! — he  would  make  his  fifty-second  visit  next 
day.” 

"We  are  all  enthusiastic,  are  we  not,  mama?”  said 
Edith,  with  a cold  smile. 

" Too  much  so  for  our  peace,  perhaps,  my  dear,”  re- 
turned her  mother  ; " but  we  won’t  complain.  Our  own 
emotions  are  our  recompense.  If,  as  your  cousin  Fee- 
nix says,,  the  sword  wears  out  the  what’s-its-name — ” 

"The  scabbard,  perhaps,”  said  Edith. 

"Exactly — a little  too  fast,  it  is  because  it  is  bright 
and  glowing,  you  know,  my  dearest  love.” 

Mrs.  Skewton  heaved  a gentle  sigh,  supposed  to  cast 
a shadow  on  the  surface  of  that  dagger  of  lath,  whereof 
her  susceptible  bosom  was  the  sheath  ; and  leaning  her 
head  on  one  side,  in  the  Cleopatra  manner,  looked  with 
pensive  affection  on  her  darling  child. 

Edith  had  turned  her  face  towards  Mr.  Dombey  when 
he  first  addressed  her,  and  had  remained  in  that  atti- 
tude, while  speaking  to  her  mother,  and  while  her 
mother  spoke  to  her,  as  though  offering  him  her  atten- 
tion, if  he  had  anything  more  to  say.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  manner  of  this  simple  courtesy  : almost  de- 
fiant, and  giving  it  the  character  of  being  rendered  on 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


127 


compulsion,  or  as  a matter  of  traffic  to  which  she  was 
a reluctant  party  : again  not  lost  upon  that  same  obser- 
ver who  was  smiling  round  the  board.  It  set  him  think- 
ing of  her  as  he  had  first  seen  her,  when  she  had  be- 
lieved herself  to  be  alone  among  the  trees. 

Mr.  Dombey  having  nothing  else  to  say,  proposed — the 
breakfast  being  now  finished,  and  the  major  gorged 
like  any  boa  constrictor — that  they  should  start.  A 
baroiiclie  being  in  waiting,  according  to  the  orders  of 
that  gentleman,  the  two  ladies,  the  major  and  himself, 
took  their  seats  in  it  ; the  native  and  the  wan  page 
mounted  the  box,  Mr,  Towlinson  being  left  behind  ; and 
Mr.  Carker,  on  horseback,  brought  up  the  rear. 

Mr.  Carker  cantered  behind  the  carriage,  at  the  dis- 
tance of  a hundred  yards  or  so,  and  watched  it,  during 
all  the  ride,  as  if  he  v/ere  a cat,  indeed,  and  its  four  oc- 
cupants, mice.  Whether  he  looked  to  one  side  of  the 
road,  or  to  the  other — over  distant  landscape,  with  its 
smooth  undulations,  windmills,  corn,  grass,  bean  fields, 
wild -flowers,  farm-yards,  hay -ricks,  and  the  spire  among 
the  wood — or  upward  in  the  sunny  air,  where  butterflies 
were  sporting  round  his  bead,  and  birds  were  pouring 
out  their  songs — or  downv^ard,  where  the  shadows  of  the 
branches  interlaced,  and  made  a trembling  carpet  on  the 
road — ^or  onward,  where  the  overhanging  trees  formed 
aisles  and  arches,  dim  with  the  softened  light  that 
steeped  through  leaves — one  corner  of  his  eye  was  ever 
on  the  formal  head  of  Mr.  Dombey,  addressed  towards 
him,  and  the  feather  in  the  bonnet,  drooping  so  neglect- 
fully and  scornfully  between  them  : much  as  he  had 
seen  the  haughty  eyelids  droop  ; not  least  so,  when  the 
face  met  that  now  fronting  it.  Once,  and  once  only,  did 
his  weary  glance  release  these  objects  ; and  that  was, 
when  a leap  over  a low  hedge,  and  a gallop  across  a 
field,  enabled  him  to  anticipate  the  carriage  coming  by 
the  road,  and  to  be  standing  ready,  at  the  journey’s  end, 
to  hand  the  ladies  out.  Then,  and  but  then,  he  met  her 
glance  for  an  instant  m tier  first  surprise  ; but  when  he 
touched  her,  in  alighting,  with  his  soft  white  hand,  it 
overlooked  him  altogetlier  as  before. 

Mrs.  Skewton  was  bent  on  taking  charge  of  Mr.  Car. 
ker  herself,  and  showing  him  the  beauties  of  the  Castle, 
She  was  determined  to  have  his  arm,  and  the  majorV 
to<\  It  would  do  that  incorrigible  creature  : who  was 
the  most  barbarous  infidel  in  point  of  poetry  : good  to  be 
In  such  company.  This  chance  arrangement  left  Mr. 
Dombey  at  liberty  to  escort  Edith  : which  he  did  : stalk- 
ing before  them  through  the  apartments  with  a gentle- 
manly solemnity. 

Those  darling  bygone  times,  Mr.  Carker,”  said  Cleo- 
patra, ‘ ' with  their  delicious  fortresses,  and  their  dear 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

old  dungeons,  and  their  delightful  places  of  torture, 
knd  their  romantic  vengeances,  and  their  picturesque  as- 
saults and  sieges,  and  everything  that  makes  life  truly 
charming  ! How  dreadfully  we  have  degenerated  1 
Yes  we  have  fallen  off  deplorably,’'  said  Mr.  Car- 

ker. 

The  peculiarity  of  their  conversation  was,  that  Mrs. 
Skewton,  in  spite  of  her  ecstasies,  and  Mr.  Carker,  in 
spite  of  his  urbanity,  were  both  intent  on  watching  Mr. 
Hombey  and  Edith.  With  all  their  conversational  endow- 
ments, they  spoke  somewhat  distractedly,  and  at  random 
in  consequence. 

“We  have  no  faith  left,  positively,”  said  Mrs. 
Skewton,  advancing  her  shrivelled  ear  ; for  Mr.  Dombey 
was  saying  something  to  Edith.  “We  have  no  faith  in 
the  dear  old  barons,  who  were  the  most  delightful 
creatures — or  in  the  dear  old  priests,  who  were  the  most 
warlike  of  men — or  even  in  the  days  of  that  inestimable 
Queen  Bess,  upon  the  wail  there,  which  were  so  ex- 
tremely golden  ! Hear  creature  ! She  was  all  heart ! 
And  that  charming  father  of  hers  I I hope  you  dote  on 
Harry  the  Eighth  ! ” 

“ I admire  him  very  much,”  said  Carker. 

“So  bluff  ! "cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  “wasn’t  he?  So 
burly.  So  truly  English.  Such  a picture,  too,  he 
makes,  with  his  dear  little  peepy  eyes,  and  his  benevolent 
chin  ! ” 

“ Ah,  ma’am  ! ” said  Carker,  stopping  short ; “ but  if 
you  speak  of  pictures,  there’s  a composition  ! What 
gallery  in  the  world  can  produce  the  counterpart  of 
that  ! ” 

As  the  smiling  gentleman  thus  spake,  he  pointed 
through  a doorway  to  where  Mr.  Dombey  and  Edith  were 
standing  alone  in  the  centre  of  another  room. 

They  were  not  interchanging  a word  or  a look.  Stand- 
ing together,  arm  in  arm,  they  had  the  appearance  of  be- 
ing more  divided  than  if  seas  had  rolled  between  them. 
There  was  a difference  even  in  the  pride  of  the  two,  that 
removed  them  farther  from  each  other,  than  if  one  had 
been  the  proudest  and  the  other  the  humblest  specimen 
of  humanity,  in  all  creation.  He,  self-important,  un- 
bending, formal,  austere.  She,  lovely  and  graceful  in  an 
uncommon  degree,  but  totally  regardless  of  herself  and 
him  and  everything  around,  and  spurning  her  own  at- 
tractions with  her  haughty  brow  and  lip,  as  if  they  were 
a badge  or  livery  she  hated.  So  unmatched  were  they, 
and  opposed,  so  forced  and  linked  together  by  a chain 
which  adverse  hazard  and  mischance  had  forged  : that 
fancy  might  have  imagined  the  pictures  on  the  walls 
around  them  startled  by  the  unnatural  conjunction,  and 
observant  of  it  in  their  several  expressions.  Grim 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


129 


knights  and  warriors  looked  scowling  on  them.  A 
churchman,"  with  his  hand  upraised,  denounced  the 
mockery  of  such  a couple  coming  to  God's  altar.  Quiet 
waters  in  landscapes,  with  the  sun  reflected  in  their 
depths,  asked,  if  better  means  of  escape  were  not  at 
hand,  was  there  no  dro’wning  left  ? Ruins  cried,  Look 
here,  and  see  what  We  are,  wedded  to  uncongenial 
Time  ! " Animals,  opposed  by  nature,  worried  one  an- 
other, as  a moral  to  them.  Loves  and  Cupids  took  to 
flight  afraid,  and  Martyrdom  had  no  such  torment  in  its 
painted  history  of  suffering. 

Nevertheless,  Mrs.  Skewton  was  so  charmed  by  the 
sight  to  which  Mr.  Carker  invoked  her  attention,  that 
she  could  not  refrain  from  saying,  half  aloud,  how  sweet, 
bow  very  full  of  soul  it  was  1 Edith,  overhearing,  looked 
round,  and  flushed  indignant  scarlet  to  her  hair. 

‘‘  My  dearest  Edith  knows  I was  admiring  her  ! " said 
Cleopatra,  tapping  her,  almost  timidly,  on  the  back  with 
her  parasol.  Sweet  pet  ! " 

Again  Mr.  Carker  saw  the  strife  he  had  witnessed  so 
unexpectedly  among  the  trees.  Again  he  sav/  the 
haughty  languor  and  indifference  come  over  it,  and  hide 
it  like  a cloud. 

She  did  not  raise  her  eyes  to  him  ; but  with  a slight 
peremptory  motion  of  them,  seemed  to  bid  her  moth^* 
come  near.  Mrs.  Skewton  thought  it  expedient  to  um 
derstand  the  hint,  and  advancing  quickly,  with  her  two 
cavaliers,  kept  near  her  daughter  from  that  time. 

Mr.  Carker  now,  having  nothing  to  distract  his  atten 
tion,  began  to  discourse  upon  the  pictures,  and  to  select 
the  best,  and  point  them  out  to  Mr.  Dombey  : speaking 
with  his  usual  familiar  recognition  of  Mr.  Dombey's 
greatness,  and  rendering  homage  by  adjusting  his  eye- 
glass for  him,  or  finding  out  the  right  place  in  his  cata- 
logue, or  holding  his  stick,  or  the  like.  These  services 
did  not  so  much  originate  with  Mr.  Carker,  in  truth,  as 
with  Mr.  Dombey  himself,  who  was  apt  to  assert  his 
chieftainship  by  saying,  with  subdued  authority,  and 
in  an  easy  way—for  him — “Here,  Carker,  have  the 
goodness  to  assist  me,  will  you  ! " which  the  smiling 
gentleman  always  did  with  pleasure. 

They  made  the  tour  of  the  pictures,  the  walls,  crow's 
nest,  and  so  forth  ; and  as  they  were  still  one  little 
party,  and  the  major  was  rather  in  the  shade,  being 
sleepy  during  the  process  of  digestion,  Mr.  Carker 
became  communicative  and  agreeable.  At  first,  he  ad- 
dressed  himself  for  the  most  part  to  Mrs.  Skewton, 
but  as  that  sensitive  lady  was  in  such  ecstasies  with  the 
works  of  art,  after  the  first  quarter  of  an  hour,  that  she 
could  do  nothing  but  yawn  (they  were  such  perfect  in- 
spirations, she  observed  as  a reason  for  that  mark  of 


130 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKBrS. 


rapture),  he  transferred  his  attentions  to  Mr.  Dombey. 
Mr.  Doinbey  said  little  beyond  an  occasional  Very 
true,  Carker,^’  or  Indeed,  Carker?''  but  he  tacitly  en- 
couraged Carker  to  proceed,  and  inwardly  approved  of 
his  behaviour  very  much  : deeming  it  as  well  that 
somebody  should  talk,  and  thinking  that  his  remarks^ 
which  were,  as  one  might  say,  a branch  of  the  parent 
establishment,  might  amuse  Mrs’  Granger.  Mr.  Carker, 
who  possessed  an  excellent  discretion,  never  took  the 
liberty  of  addressing  that  lady,  direct ; but  she  seemed 
to  listen,  though  she  never  looked  at  him  ; and  once  or 
twice,  when  he  was  emphatic  in  his  peculiar  humility, 
the  twilight  smile  stole  over  her  face,  not  as  a light,  but 
as  a deep  black  shadow. 

Warwick  Castle  being  at  length  pretty  well  exhausted, 
and  the  major  very  much  so  : to  say  nothing  of  Mrs. 
Skewton,  whose  peculiar  demonstrations  of  delight  had 
become  very  frequent  indeed  : the  carriage  was  again 
put  in  requisition,  and  they  rode  to  several  admired 
points  of  view  in  the  neighbourhood.  Mr.  Dombey  cere- 
moniously observed  of  one  of  these,  that  a sketch,  however 
slight,  from  the  fair  hand  of  Mrs.  Granger,  would  be  a 
remembrance  to  him  of  that  agreeable  day  ; though  he 
wanted  no  artificial  remembrance,  he  was  sure  (here  Mr. 
Bombey  made  another  of  his  bows),  which  he  must 
always  highly  value.  Withers  the  lean  having  Edith's 
sketch-book  under  his  arm,  was  immediately  called  upon 
by  Mrs.  Skewton  to  produce  the  same  : and  the  carriage 
stopped,  that  Edith  might  make  the  drawing,  which  Mr. 
Dombey  was  to  put  away  among  his  treasures. 

''  But  I am  afraid  I trouble  you  too  much,'’  said  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"‘By  no  means.  Where  would  you  wish  it  taken 
from  ? ” she  answered,  turning  to  him  with  the  same 
enforced  attention  as  before. 

Mr.  Dombey,  with  another  bow,  which  cracked  the 
starch  in  his  cravat,  would  beg  to  leave  that  to  the 
artist. 

‘‘  I would  rather  you  chose  for  yourself,”  said  Edith. 

Suppose  then,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  ‘‘  we  say  from 
here.  It  appears  a good  spot  for  the  purpose,  or — Carker, 
what  do  you  think  ? ” 

There  happened  to  be  in  the  foreground,  at  some  little 
distance,  a grove  of  trees,  not  unlike  that  in  which  Mr. 
Carker  had  made  his  chain  of  footsteps  in  the  morning, 
and  with  a seat  under  one  tree,  generally  resembling,  in 
the  general  character  of  its  situation,  the  point  where 
his  chain  had  broken. 

''  Might  I venture  to  suggest  to  Mrs.  Granger  ? " said 
Carker,  that  that  is  an  interesting — almost  a curious- 
point  of  view  ? ” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


1B1 


Slie  followed  tlie  direction  of  his  riding- whip  with  her 
eyes,  and  raised  them  quickly  to  his  face.  It  was  the 
second  glance  they  had  exchanged  since  their  introduce 
tion  ; and  would  have  been  exactly  like  the  first,  but 
that  its  expression  was  plainer. 

“ Would  you  like  that  ? ’’  said  Edith  to  Mr,  Dombey. 

I shall  be  charmed,"’  said  Mr.  Dombey  to  Edith. 

Therefore  the  carriage  was  driven  to  the  spot  where 
Mr.  Dombey  was  to  be  charmed  ; and  Edith,  without 
moving  from  her  seat,  and  opening  her  sketch-book  with 
her  usual  proud  indifference,  began  to  sketch. 

“ My  pencils  are  all  pointless,""  she  said,  stopping  and 
turning  them  over. 

Pray  allow  me,""  said  Mr.  Dombey.  OrCarker  will 
do  it  better,  as  he  understands  these  things.  Carker, 
have  the  goodness  to  see  to  these  pencils  for  Mrs. 
Granger."" 

Mr.  Carker  rode  up  close  to  the  carriage  door  on  Mrs. 
Granger’s  side,  and  letting  the  rein  fall  on  his  horse’s 
neck,  took  the  pencils  from  her  hand  with  a smile  and 
a bow,  and  sat  in  the  saddle  leisurely  mending  them. 
Having  done  so  he  begged  to  be  allowed  to  hold  them, 
and  to  hand  them  to  her  as  they  were  required  ; and  thus 
Mr.  Carker,  with  many  commendations  of  Mrs.  Granger’s 
extraordinary  skill — especially  in  trees — remained  close 
at  her  side,  looking  over  the  drawing  as  she  made  it. 
Mr.  Dombey  in  the  meantime  stood  bolt  upright  in  the 
carriage  like  a highly  respectable  ghost,  looking  on  too; 
v/hile  Cleopatra  and  the  major  dallied  as  two  ancient 
doves  might  do. 

‘‘Are  you  satisfied  with  that,  or  shall  I finish  it  a little 
more  ? ” said  Edith,  showing  the  sketch  to  Mr,  Dombey. 

Mr.  Dombey  begged  that  it  might  not  be  touched  ; it 
was  perfection. 

“ It  is  most  extraordinary,”  said  Carker,  bringing  every 
one  of  his  red  gums  to  bear  upon  his  praise.  “ I was  not 
prepared  for  anything  so  beautiful,  and  so  unusual  al- 
together.” 

This  might  have  applied  to  the  sketcher  no  less  than 
to  the  sketch  ; but  Mr.  Carker’s  manner  was  openness 
itself— -not  as  to  his  mouth ' alone,  but  as  to  his  whole 
spirit.  So  it  continued  fco  be  while  the  drawing  was 
laid  aside  for  Mr.  Dombey,  and*  while  the  sketching 
materials  were  put  up  ; then  he  nanded  in  the  pencils 
(which  were  received  with  a distant  acknowledgment  of 
his  help,  but  without  a look),  and  tightening  his  rein  fell 
back  and  followed  the  carriage  again. 

Thinking,  perhaps,  as  he  rode,  that  even  this  trivial 
sketch  had  been  made  and  delivered  to  its  owner,  as  if 
it  had  been  bargained  for  and  bought.  Thinking,  per- 
haps, that  although  she  had  assented  with  such  perfect 


132 


VTORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


readiness  to  his  request,  her  haughty  face,  bent  over  the 
drawing  or  glancing  at  the  distant  objects  represented 
in  it,  had  been  the  face  of  a proud  woman,  engaged  in  a 
sordid  and  miserable  transaction.  Thinking,  perhaps, 
of  such  things  : but  smiling  certainly  and  while  he  seemed 
to  look  about  him  freely,  in  enjoyment  of  the  air  and 
exercise,  keeping  always  that  sharp  corner  of  his  eye 
upon  the  carriage. 

A stroll  among  the  haunted  ruins  of  Kenilworth,  and 
more  rides  to  more  points  of  view  : most  of  which,  Mrs. 
Skewton  reminded  Mr.  Dombey,  Edith  had  already 
sketched,  as  he  had  seen  in  looking  over  her  drawings : 
brought  the  day’s  expedition  to  a close.  Mrs.  Skewton 
and  Edith  were  driven  to  their  own  lodgings  ; Mr.  Car- 
ker  was  graciously  invited  by  Cleopatra  to  return  thither 
mth  Mr.  Dombey  and  the  major,  in  the  evening,  to  hear 
some  of  Edith’s  music  ; and  the  three  gentlemen  repaired 
to  their  hotel  to  dinner. 

The  dinner  was  the  counterpart  of  yesterday’s,  except 
that  the  major  Was  twenty-four  hours  more  triumphant 
and  less  mysterious.  Edith  was  toasted  again.  Mr. 
Dombey  was  again  agreeably  embarrassed.  And  Mr. 
Carker  was  full  of  interest  and  praise. 

There  were  no  other  visitors  at  Mrs.  Ske  wton’s.  Edith’s 
drawings  were  strewn  about  the  room,  a little  more 
abundantly  than  usual  perhaps  ; and  Withers,  the  wan 
page,  handed  round  a little  stronger  tea.  The  harp  was 
there  ; the  piano  was  there  ; and  Edith  sang  and  played. . 
But  even  the  music  was  paid  by  Edith  to  Mr.  Dom bey’s 
order,  as  it  were,  in  the  same  uncompromising  way.  AS 
thus. 

“ Edith,  my  dearest  love,”  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  half  an 
hour  after  tea,  '"Mr.  Dombey  is  dying  to  hear  you,  I 
know.” 

‘‘  Mr.  Dombey  has  life  enough  left  to  say  so  for  him* 
self,  mama,  I have  no  doubt.” 

I shall  be  immensely  obliged,”  said  Mr.  Dombey. 
What  do  you  wish  ? ” 

Piano  ? ” hesitated  Mr.  Dombey. 

‘‘  Whatever  you  please.  You  have  only  to  choose. 

Accordingly,  she  began  with  the  piano.  It  was  the 
same  with  the  harp  ; the  same  with  her  singing  ; the 
same  with  the  selectiorf  of  the  pieces  that  she  sang  and 
J)layed.  Such  frigid  and  constrained,  yet  prompt  and 
pointed  acquiescence  with  the  wishes  he  imposed  upon 
her,  and  on  no  one  else,  was  sufficiently  remarkable  to 
penetrate  through  all  the  mysteries  of  picquet,  and  im- 
press itself  on  Mr.  Carker’s  keen  attention.  Nor  did  he 
lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  Mr.  Dombey  was  evidently 
proud  of  his  power  and  liked  to  show  it. 

Nevertheless,  Mr,  Carker  played  so  well — some  games 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


133 


with  the  major,  and  some  with  Cleopatra,  whose  vigi- 
lance of  eye  in  respect  of  Mr.  Dombey  and  Edith  no  lynx 
could  have  surpassed — that  he  even  heightened  his  posi- 
tion in  the  lady-mother’s  good  graces  ; and  when  on  tak* 
ing  leave  he  regretted  that  he  would  be  obliged  to  return 
to  London  next  morning,  Cleopatra  trusted  : community 
of  feeling  not  being  met  with  every  day  : that  it  was  far 
from  being  the  last  time  they  would  meet. 

‘‘  I hope  so,”  said  Mr.  Carter,  with  an  expressive  look 
at  the  couple  in  the  distance,  as  he  drew  towards  the 
door,  following  the  major.  “ I think  so.” 

Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  taken  a stately  leave  of  Edith, 
bent,  or  made  some  approach  to  bend,  over  Cleopatra’s 
couch,  and  said,  in  a low  voice  : 

I have  requested  Mrs.  Granger’s  permission  to  call 
on  her  to-morrow  morning — for  a purpose — and  she  has 
appointed  twelve  o’clock.  May  I hope  to  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  finding  you  at  home,  madam,  afterwards  ? ” 

Cleopatra  was  so  much  fluttered  and  moved,  by  hear- 
ing this,  of  course  incomprehensible  speech,  that  she 
could  only  shut  her  eyes,  and  shake  her  head,  and  give 
Mr.  Dombey  her  hand  ; which  Mr.  Dombey,  not  exactly 
knowing  what  to  do  with,  dropped. 

“ Dombey,  come  along  ! ” cried  the  major  looking  in  at 
the  door.  Damme,  sir,  old  Joe  has  a great  mind  to 
propose  an  alteration  in  the  name  of  the  Royal  Hotel, 
and  that  it  should  be  called  the  Three  Jolly  Bachelors, 
in  honour  of  ourselves  and  Carker.”  With  this  the 
major  slapped  Mr.  Dombey  on  the  back,  and  winking 
over  his  shoulder  at  the  ladies,  with  a frightful  ten- 
dency of  blood  to  the  head,  carried  him  off. 

Mrs.  Skewton  reposed  on  her  sofa,  and  Edith  sat  apart, 
by  her  harp,  in  silence.  The  mother,  trifliug  with  her 
fan,  looked  stealthily  at  the  daughter  more  than  once, 
but  the  daughter,  brooding  gloomily  with  downcast  eyes, 
was  not  to  b^e  disturbed. 

Thus  they  remained  for  a long  hour,  without  a word, 
until  Mrs.  Skewton’s  maid  appeared,  according  to  cus- 
tom, to  prepare  her  gradually  for  night.  At  night  she 
should  have  been  a skeleton,  with  dart  and  hour-glass, 
rather  than  a woman,  this  attendant ; for  her  touch  was 
as  the  touch  of  Death.  The  painted  object  shrivelled 
underneath  her  hand  ; the  form  collapsed,  the  hair  drop- 
ped off,  the  arched  dark  eyebrows  changed  to  scanty 
tufts  of  grey  ; the  pale  lips  shrunk,  the  skin  became 
cadaverous  and  loose  ; an  old,  worn,  yellow  nodding  wo- 
man, with  red  eyes,  alone  remained  in  Cleopatra’s  place, 
huddled  up,  like  a slovenly  bundle,  in  a greasy  flannel 
gown. 

The  very  voice  was  changed,  as  it  addressed  Edith, 
when  they  were  alone  again.  r 


134 


WOKES  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


WTij  don’t  you  tell  me,”  it  said,  sharply,  that  he 
is  coming  here  to-morrow  by  appointment 

Because  you  know  it,”  returned  Edith,  ‘^mother.” 

The  mocking  emphasis  she  laid  on  that  one  word  I 
You  know  he  has  bought  me,”  she  resumed.  "'Or 
that  he  will,  to-morrow.  He  has  considered  of  his  bar» 
gain  ; he  has  shown  it  to  his  friends  ; he  is  even  rather 
proud  of  it ; he  thinks  that  it  will  suit  him,  and  may  be 
had  sufficiently  cheap ; and  he  will  buy  to-morrow. 
God,  that  I have  lived  for  this,  and  that  I feel  it  ! ” 

Compress  into  one  handsome  face  the  conscious  self- 
abasement,  and  the  burning  indignation  of  a hundred 
Tvomen,  strong  in  passion  and  in  pride  ; and  there  it  hid 
itself  with  tv/o  white  shuddering  arms. 

'‘What  do  you  mean?”  returned  the  angry  mother. 
"Haven’t  you  from  a child — ” 

"A  child  !”  said  Edith,  looking  at  her,  " when  was  I 
a child.  What  childhood  did  you  ever  leave  to  me  ! I 
was  a woman  — artful,  designing,  mercenary,  laying 
snares  for  men — before  I knew  myself,  or  you,  or  even 
understood  the  base  and  wretched  aim  of  every  new  dis- 
nlay  I learnt.  You  gave  birth  to  a woman.  Look  upon 
ter.  She  is  in  her  pride  to-night.” 

And  as  she  spoke,  she  struck  her  hand  upon  her  beau 
tiful  bosom,  as  though  she  would  have  beaten  down 
hersel  f . 

" Look  at  me,”  she  said,  " v/ho  have  never  known 
what  it  is  to  have  an  honest  heart,  and  love.  Look  at 
me,  taught  to  scheme  and  plot  when  children  play,  and 
married  in  my  youth — an  old  age  of  design — to  one  for 
whom  I had  no  feeling  but  indifference.  Look  at  me, 
whom  he  left  a widow,  dying  before  his  inheritance  de- 
scended to  him — a judgment  on  you  ! well  deserved  !— - 
and  tell  me  what  has  been  my  life  for  ten  years  since.” 

"We  have  been  making  every  effort  to  endeavour  to 
secure  to  you  a good  establishment,”  rejoined  her  mother. 
" That  has  been  your  life.  And  now  you  have  got  it.” 

" There  is  no  slave  in  a market,  there  is  no  horse  in  a 
fair,  so  shown  and  offered  and  examined  and  paraded, 
mother,  as  I have  been,  for  ten  shameful  years,”  cried 
Edith,  with  a burning  brow,  and  the  same  bitter  empha^ 
sis  on  the  one  word.  " Is  it  not  so?  Have  I been  made 
the  bye- word  of  jail  kinds  of  men  ? Have  fools,  have 
p^’otiigates,  have  boys,  have  dotards,  dangled  after  me, 
and  one  by  one  rejected  me,  and  fallen  off,  because  you 
were  too  plain  with  all  your  cunning — yes,  and  too  true, 
with  all  those  false  pretences — until  we  have  almost 
come  to  be  notorious?  The  licence  of  look  and  touch,” 
she  said,  with  flashing  eyes,  " have  I submitted  to  it, 
in  half  the  places  of  resort  upon  the  map  of  England  ? 
Have  I been  hawked  and  vended  here  and  there,  until 


A child!  ” SAID  EDITH,  LOOKING  AT  HER.  “ WHEN  WAS  I A CHILD  ? 
WHAT  CHILDHOOD  DID  YOU  EVER  LEAVE  TO  ME  ? ” 

— Dombey  and  Son,  Vol.  Twelve,  page  135. 


136 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


iihe  last  grain  of  self-respect  is  dead  within  me , and  1 
loathe  myself  ? Has  this  been  my  late  childhood  ? I had 
none  before.  Do  not  tell  me  that  I had,  to-night,  of  all 
nights  in  my  life  ! ” 

You  might  have  been  well  married,”  said  her  mother, 

tv/enty  times  at  least,  Edith,  if  you  had  given  encour- 
agement enough.” 

No  ! Who  takes  me,  refuse  that  I am,  and  as  I 
well  deserve  to  be,”  she  answered,  raising  her  head,  and 
trembling  in  her  energy  of  shame  and  stormy  pride, 
^ shall  take  me,  as  this  man  does,  with  no  art  of  mine 
put  forth  to  ] ure  him.  He  sees  me  at  the  auction,  and 
he  thinks  it  well  to  buy  me.  Let  him  ! When  he  came 
to  view  me — perhaps  to  bid — he  required  to  see  the  roll 
of  my  accomplishments.  I gave  it  to  him.  When  be 
would  have  me  show  one  of  them,  to  justify  his  pur- 
chase to  his  men,  I require  of  him  to  say  which  he  de- 
mands, and  I exhibit  it.  I will  do  no  more.  He  makes 
Jhe  purchase  of  his  own  will,  and  with  his  own  sense  of 
its  worth,  and  the  power  of  his  money  ; and  I hope  it 
may  never  disappoint  him.  I have  not  vaunted  and 
pressed  the  bargain  ; neither  have  you,  so  far  as  I have 
been  able  to  prevent  you.” 

‘‘  You  talk  strangely  to-night,  Edith,  to  your  own 
mother.” 

It  seems  so  to  me  ; stranger  to  me  than  you,”  said 
Edith.  But  my  education  was  completed  long  ago. 
I am  too  old  now,  and  have  fallen  too  low,  by  degrees, 
to  take  a new  course,  and  to  stop  yours,  and  to  help  ray- 
self.  The  germ  oi  all  that  purifies  a woman's  breast,  and 
makes  it  true  and  good,  has  never  stirred  in  mine,  and  I 
have  nothing  else  to  sustain  me  when  I despise  myself.” 
There  had  been  a touching  sadness  in  her  voice,  but  it 
was  gone,  when  she  went  on  to  say,  ‘'So,  as  we  are 
genteel  and  poor,  I am  content  that  we  should  be  made 
rich  by  these  means  ; all  I say  is,  I have  kept  the  only 
purpose  I have  had  the  strength  to  form — I*  had  almost 
said  the  power,  with  you  at  my  side,  mother — and  have 
not  tempted  this  man  on.” 

“This  man!  You  speak,”  said  her  mother,  “as  if 
you  hated  him,” 

“ And  you  thought  I loved  him,  did  you  not  ? ” she  an- 
swered, stopping  on  her  way  across  the  room,  and  look- 
ing round,  “ Shall  I tell  you,”  she  continued,  with  her 
eyes  fixed  on  her  mother,  “ who  already  knows  us 
thoroughly,  and  reads  us  right,  and  before  v/nom  I have 
even  less  of  self-respect  or  confidence  than  before  my  own 
inward  self  : being  so  much  degraded  by  his  knowledge 
of  me  ? ” 

“ This  is  an  attack,  1 suppose,”  returned  lier  mother, 
coldly,  “on  poor,  unfortunate  what’s-his-name — Mr.  Gar- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


137 


ker  ! Your  want  of  self-respect  and  confidence,  my  dear, 
in  reference  to  that  person  (who  is  very  agreeable,  it 
strikes  me),  is  not  likely  to  have  much  effect  on  your  es- 
tablishment.  Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  hard  ? Are 
you  ill  ? ’’ 

Edith  suddenly  let  fall  her  face,  as  if  it  had  been 
stung,  and  while  she  pressed  her  hands  upon  it,  a terri- 
ble tremble  crept  over  her  whole  frame.  It  was  quickly 
gone  ; and  with  her  usual  step  she  passed  out  of  the 
room. 

The  maid,  who  should  have  been  a skeleton,  then  re- 
appeared, and  giving  one  arm  to  her  mistress,  who  ap- 
peared to  have  taken  off  her  manner  with  her  charms, 
and  to  have  put  on  paralysis  with  her  flannel  gown,  col- 
lected the  ashes  of  Cleopatra,  and  carried  them  away, 
ready  for  to-morrow’s  revivification. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Alterations, 

So  the  day  has  come  at  length,  Susan,”  said  Florence 
to  the  excellent  Nipper,  when  we  are  going  back  to 
our  quiet  home  ! ” 

Susan  drew  in  her  breath  with  an  amount  of  expression 
not  easily  described,  and  further  relieving  her  feelings 
with  a smart  cough,  answered,  ‘‘Very  quiet  indeed. 
Miss  Floy,  no  doubt.  Excessive  so.” 

“ When  I was  a child,”  said  Florence,  thoughtfully, 
and  after  musing  for  some  moments,  “did  you  ever  see 
that  gentleman  who  has  taken  the  trouble  to  ride  down 
here  to  speak  to  me,  now  three  times — three  times  I 
think,  Susan  ? ” 

“Three  times,  miss,”  returned  the  Nipper.  “Once 
when  you  was  walking  out  with  them  Sket — ” 

Florence  gently  looked  at  her,  and  Miss  Nipper  check- 
ed herself. 

“ With  Sir  Barnet  and  his  lady,  I mean  to  say,  miss, 
and  the  young  gentleman.  And  two  evenings  since 
then.” 

“When  I was  a child,  and  when  company  used  to 
come  to  visit  papa,  did  you  ever  see  that  gentleman  at 
home,  Susan  ? ” asked  Florence. 

“Well,  miss,”  returned  the  maid,  after  considering, 
“ I really  couldn’t  say  I ever  did.  When  your  poor  dear 
ma  died.  Miss  Floy,  I was  very  new  in  the  family,  you 
see,  and  my  element : ” the  Nipper  bridled,  as  opining 
that  her  merits  had  been  always  designedly  extinguished 
by  Mr.  Dombey  : “ was  the  floor  below  the  attics.” 


138 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


‘‘To  be  pure/'  said  Florence,  still  tliouglitfully  : “ yon 
are  not  likely  to  have  known  who  came  to  the  house. 
I quite  forgot.” 

‘‘Not,  miss,  but  what  we  talked  about  the  family  and 
visitors,”  said  Susan,  “ and  but  what  I heard  much  said, 
although  the  nurse  before  Mrs.  Richards  dM  make  un- 
pleasant remarks  when  I was  in  company,  and  hint  at 
little  Pitchers,  but  that  could  only  be  attributed,  poor 
thing,” observed  Susan  with  composed  forbearance,  “to 
habits  of  intoxication,  for  which  she  w^as  required  to 
leave,  and  did.” 

Florence,  who  was  seated  at  her  chamber  window,  with 
her  face  resting  on  her  hand,  sat  looking  out,  and  hardly 
seemed  to  her  what  Susan  said,  she  was  so  lost  in 
thought. 

“ At  all  events,  miss,”  said  Susan.  “ I remember  very 
well  that  this  same  gentleman,  Mr.  Carker,  was  almost, 
if  not  quite,  as  great  a gentleman  with  your  papa  then, 
as  he  is  now.  It  used  to  be  said  in  the  house  then,  miss, 
that  he  was  at  the  head  of  all  your  pa’s  affairs  in  the  city, 
and  managed  the  whole,  and  that  your  pa  minded  him 
more  than  anybody,  which  begging  your  pardon.  Miss 
Floy,  he  might  easy  do,  for  he  never  minded  anybody 
else.  I knew  that.  Pitcher  as  I might  have  been.” 

Susan  Nipper,  with  an  injured  remembrance  of  the 
nurse  before  Mrs.  Richards,  emphasised  “Pitcher” 
strongly. 

“And  that  Mr.  Carker  has  not  fallen  off,  miss,”  she 
pursued,  “ but  has  stood  his  ground,  and  kept  his  credit 
with  your  pa,  I know  from  what  is  always  said  among 
our  people  by  that  Perch,  whenever  he  comes  to  the 
house,  and  though  he’s  the  weakest  weed  in  the  world. 
Miss  Floy,  and  no  one  can  have  a moment’s  peace  with 
the  man,  he  knows  what  goes  on  in  the  city  tolerably 
well,  and  says  that  your  pa  does  nothing  without  Mr. 
Carker,  and  leaves  all  to  Mr.  Carker,  and  acts  according 
to  Mr.  Carker,  and  has  Mr.  Carker  always  at  his  elbow, 
and  I do  believe  that  he  believes  (that  washiest  of 
Perches)  that  after  your  pa,  the  Emperor  of  India  is  the 
child  unborn  to  Mr.  Carker.” 

Not  a word  of  this  was  lost  on  Florence,  who,  with 
an  awakened  interest  in  Susan’s  speech,  no  longer  gazed 
abstractedly  on  the  prospect  without,  but  looked  at  her, 
and  listened  with  attention. 

“Yes,  Susan,”  she  said,  when  that  young  lady  had 
concluded.  “He  is  in  papa’s  confidence,  and  is  his 
friend,  I am  sure.” 

Florence’s  mind  ran  high  on  this  theme,  and  had  done 
for  some  days.  Mr.  Carker,  in  the  two  visits  with  which 
he  had  followed  up  his  first  one,  had  assumed  a confi- 
dence between  himself  and  her~a  right  on  his  part  to 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


139 


be  mysterious  and  stealthy,  in  telling*  her  that  the  ship 
was  still  unheard  of — a kind  of  mildly  restrained  power, 
and  authority  over  her — that  made  her  wonder,  and 
caused  her  great  uneasiness.  She  had  no  means  of  re- 
pelling it,  or  from  freeing  herself  from  the  web  he  was 
gradually  winding  about  her ; for  that  would  have  re- 
quired some  art  and  knowledge  of  the  world,  opposed 
to  such  address  as  his  ; and  Florence  had  none.  True, 
he  had  said  no  more  to  her  than  that  there  was  no  news 
©f  the  ship,  and  that  he  feared  the  worst ; but  how  he 
came  to  know  that  she  was  interested  in  the  ship,  and 
why  he  had  the  right  to  signify  his  knowledge  to  her,  so 
insidiously  and  darkly,  troubled  Florence  very  much. 

This  conduct  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Carker,  and  her  habit 
of  often  considering  it  with  wonder  and  uneasiness,  be- 
gan to  invest  him  with  an  uncomfortable  fascination  in 
Florence’s  thoughts.  A more  distinct  remembrance  of 
his  features,  voice,  and  manner : which  she  sometimes 
courted,  as  a means  of  reducing  him  to  the  level  of  a 
real  personage,  capable  of  exerting  no  greater  charm  over 
her  than  another  : did  not  remove  the  vague  impression. 
And  yet  he  never  frowned,  or  looked  upon  her  with  an 
air  of  dislike  or  animosity,  but  was  always  smiling  and 
serene. 

Again,  Florence,  in  pursuit  of  her  strong  purpose  with 
reference  to  her  father,  and  her  steady  resolution  to  be- 
lieve that  she  was  herself  unwittingly  to  blame  for  their 
so  cold  and  distant  relations,  would  recall  to  mind  that 
this  gentleman  was  -his  confidential  friend,  and  would 
think,  with  an  anxious  heart,  could  her  struggling  ten- 
dency to  dislike  and  fear  him  be  a part  of  that  misfor- 
tune in  her,  which  had  turned  her  father’s  love  adrift, 
and  left  her  so  alone  ? She  dreaded  that  it  might  be  ; 
sometimes  believed  it  was  : then  she  resolved  that  she 
would  try  to  conquer  this  wrong  feeling  ; persuaded  her- 
self that  she  was  honoured  and  en courged  by  the  notice 
of  her  father’s  friend  ! and  hoped  that  patient  observa- 
tion of  him  and  trust  in  him  would  lead  her  bleeding  feet 
along  that  stony  road  which  ended  in  her  father’s  heart. 

Thus,  with  no  one  to  advise  her — for  she  could  advise 
with  no  one  without  seeming  to  complain  against  him — 

gentle  Florence  tossed  on  an  uneasy  sea  of  doubt  and 
ope  ; and  Mr.  Carker,  like  a scaly  monster  of  the  deep, 
swam  down  below,  and  kept  his  shining  eye  upon  her. 

Florence  had  a new  reason  in  all  this  for  wishing  to 
be  at  home  again.  Her  lonely  life  was  better  suited  to 
her  course  of  timid  hope  and  doubt : and  she  feared 
sometimes,  that  in  her  absence  she  might  miss  some 
hopeful  chance  of  testifying  her  affection  for  her  father. 
Heaven  knows,  she  might  have  set  her  mind  at  rest, 
poor  child  1 on  this  last  point ; but  her  slighted  love  was 


140 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


fluttering  within  her,  and,  even  in  her  sleep,  it  flev/ 
away  in  dreams,  and  nestled,  like  a wandering  bird  come 
home,  upon  her  father’s  neck. 

Of  Walter  she  thought  often.  Ah  ! how  often,  when 
the  night  was  gloomy,  and  the  wind  was  blowing  round 
the  house  I But  hope  was  strong  in  her  breast.  It  k 
so  diflicult  for  the  young  and  ardent,  even  with  such  ex- 
perience as  hers,  to  imagine  youth  and  ardour  quenched 
like  a weak  flame,  and  the  bright  day  of  life  merging 
into  night,  at  noon,  that  hope  was  strong  yet.  Her 
tears  fell  frequently  for  Walter’s  sufferings,  but  rarely 
for  his  supposed  death,  and  never  long. 

She  had  written  to  the  old  Instrument-maker,  but  had 
received  no  answer  to  her  note  : which  indeed  required 
none.  Thus  matters  stood  with  Florence  on  the  morn- 
ing when  she  was  going  home,  gladly,  to  her  old  S0“ 
eluded  life. 

Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber,  accompanied  (much  against 
his  will)  by  their  valued  charge,  Master  Barnet,  were 
already  gone  back  to  Brighton,  where  that  young  gentle- 
man and  his  fellow  pilgrims  to  Parnassus  were  then,  no 
doubt,  in  the  continual  resumption  of  their  studies. 
The  holiday  time  was  past  and  over ; most  of  the  ju- 
venile guests  at  the  villa  had  taken  their  departure ; 
and  Florence’s  long  visit  was  come  to  an  end. 

There  was  one  guest,  however,  albeit  not  resident 
within  the  liouse,  who  had  been  very  constant  in  his  at- 
tention to  the  family,  and  who  still  remained  devoted  to 
them.  This  v/as  Mr.  Toots,  who  after  renewing,  some 
weeks  ago,  the  acquaintance  he  had  had  the  happiness  of 
forming  vnth  Sketfcles  Junior,  on  the  night  when  he 
burst  the  Blimberian  bonds  and  soared  into  freedom 
with  liis  ring  on,  called  regularly  every  other  day,  and 
left  a perfect  pack  of  cards  at  the  hall-door  ; so  many 
indeed,  that  the  ceremony  was  quite  a deal  on  the  part 
of  Mr.  Toots,  and  a hand  at  v/hist  on  the  part  of  the 
sel’vant . 

Mr.  Toots,  likewise,  with  the  bold  and  happy  idea  of 
preventing  the  family  from  forgetting  him  (but  there  is 
reason  to  suppose  that  this  expedient  originated  in  the 
teeming  brain  of  the  Chicken),  had  established  a six- 
oared  cutter,  manned  by  aquatic  friends  of  the  Chicken’s 
and  steered  by  that  illustrious  character  in  person,  who 
wore  a bright  red  fireman’s  coat  for  the  purpose,  and 
concealed  the  perpetual  black  eye  with  which  he  was 
afflicted,  beneath  a green  shade.  Previous  to  the  insth 
tution  of  this  equipage,  Mr.  Toots  sounded  the  Chicken 
on  a hypothetical  case,  as,  supposing  the  Chicken  to  be 
enamoured  of  a young  lady  named  Mary,  and  to  have 
conceived  the  intention  of  starting  a boat  of  his  own, 
what  would  he  call  that  boat?  The  Chicken  repll.d, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


141 


witli  divers  strong  asseverations,  tliat  he  would  either 
christen  it  Poll  or  the  Chicken’s  Delight.  Improving  on 
this  idea,  Mr.  Toots,  after  deep  study  and  the  exercise  of 
much  invention,  resolved  to  call  this  boat  The  Tootses 
Joy,  as  a delicate  compliment  to  Florence,  of  which  no 
man  knowing  the  parties,  could  possibly  miss  the  appre^ 
ciation. 

Stretched  on  a crimson  cushion  in  his  gallant  hark, 
with  his  shoes  in  the  air,  Mr.  Toots,  in  the  exercise  of 
his  project,  had  come  up  the  river,  day  after  day,  and  week 
after  week,  and  had  flitted  to  and  fro,  near  Sir  Barnet's 
garden,  and  had  caused  his  crew  to  cut  across  and  across 
the  river  at  sharp  angles,  for  his  better  exhibition  to  any 
lookers-out  from  Sir  Barnet's  windows,  and  had  had 
such  evolutions  performed  by  the  Toots's  Delight  as  had 
filled  all  the  neighbouring  part  of  the  water-side  with 
astonishment.  But  whenever  he  saw  any  one  in  Sir 
Barnet's  garden  on  the  brink  of  the  river,  Mr.  Toots 
always  feigned  to  be  passing  there,  by  a combination  of 
coincidences  of  the  most  singular  and  unlikely  descrip- 
tion. 

How  are  you,  Toots  !"  Sir  Barnet  would  say,  wav- 
ing  his  hand  from  the  lawn,  while  the  artful  Chicken 
steered  close  in  shore. 

‘‘How  de  do,  Sir  Barnet  ! " Mr.  Toots  would  answer. 
“ What  a surprising  thing  that  I should  see  you  here?" 

Mr.  Toots,  in  his  sagacity,  always  said  this,  as  if,  im 
stead  of  that  being  Sir  Barnet’s  house,  it  were  some  dev 
serted  edifice  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile,  or  Gapges. 

“I  never  was  so  surprised!”  Mr.  Toots  would  ex^ 
claim. — “ Is  Miss  Dombey  there  ? " 

Whereupon  Florence  would  appear,  perhaps. 

“Oh,  Diogenes  is  quite  well,  Miss  Dombey,"  Mr.  Toots 
would  cry.  “ I called  to  ask  this  morning.” 

“ Thank  you  very  much  ! " the  pleasant  voice  of  Floiv 
ence  would  reply. 

“ Won't  you  come  ashore.  Toots?”  Sir  Barnet  would 
eay  then.  “Come  ! you're  in  no  hurry.  Come  and  see 
us." 

“Oh  it's  of  no  consequence,  thank  you  1"  Mr.  Toots 
Tvould  blushingly  rejoin.  “ I thought  Miss  Dombey 
would  like  to  know,  that's  all.  Good  bye  I " And  poor 
Mr.  Toots  who  was  dying  to  accept  the  invitation,  but 
hadn't  the  courage  to  do  it,  signed  to  the  Chicken,  with 
an  aching  heart,  and  away  went  the  Delight,  cleaving 
the  water  like  an  arrow. 

The  Delight  was  lying  in  a state  of  extraordinary 
splendour  at  the  garden  steps,  on  the  morning  of  Flor- 
ence's departure.  When  she  went  down-stairs  to  take 
leave,  after  her  talk  with  Susan,  she  found  Mr.  Toots 
awaiting  her  in  the  drawing-room. 


142 


WORKS  OP  ICHARLES  DICKENS. 


‘‘  Oil,  how  de  do,  Miss  Bombey  ? ’’  said  tlie  stricken 
Toots,  always  dreadfully  disconcerted  when  the  desire  of 
his  heart  was  gained,  and  he  was  speaking  to  her  ; 
‘‘  thank  you.  Fin  very  well  indeed,  I hope  you’re  the 
same,  so  was  Diogenes  yesterday.” 

“You  are  very  kind,”  said  Florence. 

“ Thank  you,  it’s  of  no  consequence,”  retorted  Mn 
Toots.  “I  thought  perhaps  you  wouldn’t  mind,  in  this 
fine  weather,  coming  home  by  water,  Miss  Dombey. 
There’s  plenty  of  room  in  the  boat  for  your  maid.  ” 

“I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,”  said  Florence,  hesi- 
tating. “ I really  am — but  I would  rather  not.” 

“ Oh,  it’s  of  no  consequence,”  retorted  Mr.  Toots. 
“ Good  morning  ! ” 

“ Won’t  you  wait  and  see  Lady  Skettles?”  asked  Flor- 
ence, kindly. 

‘‘Oh  no,  thank  you,”  returned  Mr.  Toots,  “it’s  of  no 
consequence  at  all.” 

So  shy  was  Mr.  Toots  on  such  occasions,  and  so  flur- 
ried ! But  Lady  Skettles  entering  at  that  moment,  Mr. 
Toots  was  suddenly  seized  with  a passion  for  asking  her 
how  she  did,  and  hoping  she  was  very  well  ; nor  could 
Mr.  Toots  by  any  possibility  leave  off  shaking  hands 
with  her,  until  Sir  Barnet  appeared  : to  whom  he  im= 
mediately  clung  with  the  tenacity  of  desperation. 

“We  are  losing,  to-day.  Toots,”  said  Sir  Barnet, 
turning  towards  Florence,  “the  light  of  our  house,  I as- 
sure you.” 

“Oh,  it’s  of  no  conseq — I mean  yes,  to  be  sure,” 
faltered  the  embarrassed  Toots.  “ Good  morning  ! ” 

Notwithstanding  the  emphatic  nature  of  this  farewell, 
Mr.  Toots,  instead  of  going  away,  stood  leering  about 
him,  vacantly.  Florence,  to  relieve  him,  bade  adieu, 
with  many  thanks,  to  Lady  Skettles,  and  gave  her  arm 
to  Sir  Barnet. 

“May  I beg  of  you  my  dear  Miss  Dombey,”  said  her 
host,  as  he  conducted  her  to  the  carriage,  “to  present 
my  best  compliments  to  your  dear  papa  ? ” 

It  was  distressing  to  Florence  to  receive  the  commission, 
for  she  felt  as  if  she  were  imposing  on  Sir  Barnet,  by 
allowing  him  to  believe  that  a kindness  rendered  to  her, 
was  rendered  to  her  father.  As  she  could  not  explain, 
however,  she  bowed  her  head  and  thanked  him  ; and 
again  she  thought  that  the  dull  home,  free  from  such 
embarrassments,  and  such  reminders  of  her  sorrow,  was 
her  natural  and  best  retreat. 

Such  of  her  late  friends  and  companions  as  were  yet 
remaining  at  the  villa,  came  running  from  within,  and 
from  the  garden,  to  say  good  bye.  They  were  all  at- 
tached to  her,  and  very  earnest  in  taking  leave  of  Imr. 
Even  the  household  were  sorry  for  her  going,  and  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


143 


servants  came  nodding  and  curtseying  round  the  carriage 
door.  As  Florence  looked  round  on  the  kind  faces,  and 
saw  among  them  those  of  Sir  Barnet  and  his  lady,  and 
of  Mr.  Toots,  who  was  chuckling  and  staring  at  her  from 
a distance,  she  was  reminded  of  the  night  when  Paul 
and  she  had  come  from  Doctor  Blimber’s  : and  when 
the  carriage  drove  away,  her  face  was  wet  with  tears. 

Sorrowful  tears,  but  tears  of  consolation,  too;  for  all  the 
softer  memories  connected  with  the  dull  old  house  to  which 
she  was  returning  made  it  dear  to  her,  as  they  rose  up. 
How  long  it  seemed  since  she  had  wandered  through  the 
silent  rooms  ; since  she  had  last  crept,  softly  and  afraid, 
into  those  her  father  occupied  : since  she  had  felt  the 
solemn  but  yet  soothing  influence  of  the  beloved  dead 
in  every  action  of  her  daily  life  ! This  new  farew-ell  re- 
'ninded  her,  besides,  of  her  parting  with  poor  Walter  ; 
of  his  looks  and  words  that  night  ; and  of  the  graciouS 
blending  she  had  noticed  in  him,  of  tenderness  for  those 
he  left  behind,  with  courage  and  high  spirit.  His  little 
history  was  associated  with  the  old  house  too,  and  gave 
it  a new  claim  and  hold  upon  her  heart. 

Even  Susan  Nipper  softened  towards  the  home  of  so 
many  years,  as  they  were  on  their  way  towards  it. 
Hloomy  as  it  was,  and  rigid  justice  as  she  rendered  to 
its  gloom,  she  forgave  it  a great  deal.  ‘‘  I shall  be  glad 
to  see  it  again,  I don't  deny,  miss,”  said  the  Nipper. 

There  ain't  much  in  it  to  boast  of,  but  I wouldn't  have 
it  burnt  or  pulled  down,  neither  ! ” 

You'll  be  glad  to  go  through  the  old  rooms,  won't 
you,  Susan  ? ” said  Florence,  smiling. 

‘‘Well,  miss,”  returned  the  Nipper,  softening  more 
and  more  towards  the  house,  as  they  approached  it 
nearer,  ‘‘I  won't  deny  but  what  I shall,  though  I shall 
hate  'em  again,  to-morrow,  very  likely.” 

Florence  felt  that,  for  her,  there  was  greater  peace 
within  it  than  elsewhere.  It  was  better  and  easier  to 
keep  her  secret  shut  up  there,  among  the  tall  dark  walls, 
than  to  carry  it  abroad  into  the  light,  and  try  to  hide  it 
from  a crowd  of  happy  eyes.  It  v/as  better  to  pursue 
the  study  of  her  loving  heart,  alone,  and  find  no  new 
discouragements  in  loving  hearts  about  her.  It  was 
easier  to  hope,  and  pray,  and  love  on  all  uncared 
for,  yet  with  constancy  and  patience,  in  the  tranquil 
sanctuary  of  such  remembrances  : although  it  mouldered, 
rusted,  and  decayed  about  her : than  in  a new  scene,  let 
its  gaiety  be  wdiat  it  would.  She  welcomed  back  her  old 
enchanted  dream  of  life,  ^nd  longed  for  the  old  dark 
door  to  close  upon  her,  once  again. 

Full  of  such  thoughts,  they  turned  into  the  long  and 
sombre  street.  Florence  was  not  on  that  side  of  the 
carriage  which  was  nearest  to  her  home,  and  as  the  dis- 


144 


WOBKS  OF  CflABLES  DICKENS. 


tanee  lessened  between  tliem  and  it,  slie  looked  out  of 
her  window  for  the  children  over  the  way. 

She  was  thus  engaged,  when  an  exclamation  from 
Susan  caused  her  to  turn  quickly  round. 

‘‘  Why  gracious  me  ! cried  Susan,  breathless, where's 
our  house  ! ” 

Our  house  said  Florence. 

Susan,  drawing  in  her  head  from  the  window,  thrust 
it  out  again,  drew  it  in  again  as  the  carriage  stopped, 
and  stared  at  her  mistress  in  amazement. 

There  was  a labyrinth  of  scaffolding  raised  all  round 
the  house,  from  the  basement  to  the  roof.  Loads  of 
bricks  and  stones,  and  heaps  of  mortar,  and  piles  of 
wood,  blocked  up  half  the  width  and  length  of  the 
vvoad  street  at  the  side.  Ladders  were  raised  against  the 
waFis:  labourers  were  climbing  up  and  down  ; men  were 
at  work  upon  the  steps  of  the  scaffolding  ; painters  and 
decorators  were  busy  inside  ; great  rolls  of  ornamental 
paper  were  being  delivered  from  a cart  at  the  door  : an 
upholsterer’s  waggon  also  stopped  the  way  ; no  furniture 
was  to  be  seen  through  the  gaping  and  broken  windov/s 
in  any  of  the  rooms  ; nothing  but  workmen,  and  the  im- 
plements of  their  several  trades,  swarming  from  the 
kitchens  to  the  garrets.  Inside  and  outside  alike  ; brick- 
layers, painters,  carpenters,  masons : hammer,  hod, 
brush,  pickaxe,  saw,  and  trowel : all  at  work  together,  in 
full  chorus  ! 

Florence  descended  from  the  coach,  half  doubting  if 
it  were,  or  could  be  the  right  house,  until  she  recognised 
Towlinson,  with  a sunburnt  face,  standing  at  the  door 
to  receive  her. 

''There  is  nothing  the  matter?”  inquired  Florence. 

"'Oh  no,  miss.” 

" There  are  great  alterations  going  on.” 

"Yes,  miss,  great  alterations,”  said  Towlinson. 

Florence  passed  him  as  if  she  were  in  a dream,  and 
hurried  up-stairs.  The  garish  light  was  in  the  long- 
darkened  drawing-room,  and  there  were  steps  and  plat- 
forms, and  men  in  paper  caps,  in  the  high  places.  Her 
mother’s  picture  was  gone  with  the  rest  of  the  move- 
ables, and  on  the  marl?;  where  it  had  been,  was  scrawled 
in  chalk,  "this  room  in  panel.  Green  and  gold.”  The 
staircase  was  a labyrinth  of  posts  and  planks  like  the 
outside  of  the  house,  and  a whole  Olympus  of  plumbers 
and  glaziers  were  reclining  in  various  attitudes,  on  the 
skylight.  Her  own  room  was  not  yet  touched  within, 
but  there  were  beams  and  boawls  raised  against  it  with, 
out,  baulking  the  daylight.  She  went  up  swfftty  to 
that  other  bed-room,  where  the  little  bed  was  ; and  a 
dark  giant  of  a man  with  a pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  his 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


liead  tied  up  in  a pocket-handkerchief,  was  staring  in  at 
Jhe  window. 

It  was  here  that  Susan  Nipper,  who  had  been  in  quest 
of  Florence,  found  her,  and  said,  would  she  go  down- 
stairs to  her  papa,  who  wished  to  speak  to  her. 

‘‘  At  home  ! and  wishing  to  speak  to  me  \”  cried  Flor- 
ence, trembling. 

Susan,  who  was  infinitely  more  distraught  than  Flor- 
ence herself  repeated  her  errand  ; and  Florence,  pale 
and  agitated,  hurried  down  again,  without  a moment’s 
hesitation.  She  thought  upon  the  way  down,  would  she 
dare  to  kiss  him?  The  longing  of  her  heart  resolved 
her,  and  she  thought  she  would. 

Her  father  might  have  heard  that  heart  beat,  when  it 
came  into  his  presence.  One  instant,  and  it  would  have 
heat  against  his  breast — 

But  he  was  not  alone.  There  were  two  ladies  there  ; 
and  Florence  stopped.  Striving  so  hard  with  her  emo- 
tion, that  if  her  brute  friend  Hi  had  not  burst  in  and 
overwhelmed  her  with  his  caresses  as  a welcome  home 
— at  which  one  of  the  ladies  gave  a little  scream,  and 
that  diverted  her  attention  from  herself — she  would 
have  swooned  upon  the  floor. 

Florence,”  said  her  father,  putting  out  his  hand  : so 
stiffly  that  it  held  her  off  : how  do  you  do  ? ” 

Florence  took  the  hand  between  her  own,  and  putting 
it  timidly  to  her  lips,  yielded  to  its  withdrawal.  It 
touched  the  door  in  shutting  it,  with  quite  as  much  en- 
dearment as  it  had  touched  her. 

‘‘  What  dog  is  that  ? ” said  Mr.  Dombey,  displeased. 

It  is  a dog,  papa— from  Brighton.” 

Well ! ” said  Mr.  Dombey  ; and  a cloud  passed  over 
his  face,  for  he  understood  her. 

“He  is  very  good-tempered,”  said  Florence,  address- 
ing herself  with  her  natural  grace  and  sweetness  to  the 
two  lady  strangers.  “He  is  only  glad  to  see  me.  Pray 
forgive  him.” 

She  saw  in  the  glance  they  interchanged,  that  the 
lady  who  had  screamed,  and  who  was  seated,  was  old  ; 
and  that  the  other  lady,  who  stood  near  her  papa,  was 
very  beautiful,  and  of  an  elegant  figure. 

“ Mrs.  Skewton,”  said  her  father,  turning  to  the  first, 
and  holding  out  his  hand,  “ this  is  my  daughter  Flor- 
ence.” 

“Charming,  I am  sure,”  observed  the  lady,  putting 
up  her  glass.  “So  natural  ! My  darling  Florence,  you 
inust  kiss  me,  if  you  please.  ” 

Florence  having  done  so,  turned  towards  the  other 
lady,  by  whom  her  father  stood  waiting. 

“ Edith,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  “ this  is  my  daughter 
Florence.  Florence,  this  lady  will  soon  be  your  mama/^ 
VoL.  la 


146 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Florence  started,  and  looked  up  at  the  beautiful  face 
in  a conflict  of  emotions,  among  which  the  tears  that 
name  awakened,  struggled  for  a moment  with  surprise, 
interest,  admiration,  and  an  indeflnable  sort  of  fear. 
Then  she  cried  out,  Oh,  papa,  may  you  be  happy  I 
may  you  be  very,  very  happy  all  your  life  ! and  then 
fell  weeping  on  the  lady’s  bosom. 

There  was  a short  silence.  The  beautiful  lady,  who 
at  first  had  seemed  to  hesitate  whether  or  no  she  should 
advance  to  Florence,  held  her  to  her  breast,  and  pressed 
the  hand  with  which  she  clasped  her,  close  about  her 
waist,  as  if  to  reassure  her  and  comfort  her.  Not  one 
word  passed  the  lady’s  lips.  She  bent  her  head  down 
over  Florence,  and  she  kissed  her  on  the  cheek,  but  she 
said  no  word. 

Shall  we  go  on  through  the  rooms,”  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  and  see  how  our  workmen  are  doing  ? Pray 
allow  me,  my  dear  madam.  ” 

He  said  this  in  offering  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Skewton,  who 
had  been  looking  at  Florence  through  her  glass,  as 
though  picturing  to  herself  what  she  might  be  made,  by 
the  infusion — from  her  own  copious  storehouse,  no  doubt 
— of  a little  more  Heart  and  Nature.  Florence  was 
still  sobbing  on  the  lady’s  breast,  and  holding  to  her, 
when  Mr.  Dombey  was  heard  to  say  from  the  conserva- 
tory : 

Let  us  ask  Edith.  Dear  me,  where  is  she  ? ” 

Edith,  my  dear  1 ” cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  “ where 
you  ? Looking  for  Mr.  Dombey  somewhere,  I know 
We  are  here,  my  love.” 

The  beautiful  lady  released  her  hold  of  Florence,  and 
pressing  her  lips  once  more  upon  her  face,  withdrew 
hurriedly,  and  joined  them.  Florence  remained  standing 
in  the  same  place  : happy,  sorry,  joyful,  and  in  tears, 
she  knew  not  how  or  how  long,  but  all  at  once:  when 
her  new  mama  came  back,  and  took  her  in  her  arms 
again. 

Florence,”  said  the  lady  hurriedly,  and  looking  into 
her  face  with  great  earnestness.  ‘‘You  v/ill  not  begin 
by  hating  me  ? ” 

“ By  hating  you,  mama  ! ” cried  Florence,  winding 
her  arm  round  her  neck,  and  returning  the  look. 

“Hush  ! Begin  by  tliinking  well  of  me,”  said  the 
beautiful  lady.  “ Begin  by  believing  that  I will  try  to 
make  you  happy,  and  that  I am  prepared  to  love  you, 
Florence.  Good  bye.  We  shall  meet  again,  soon.  Good 
bye  ! Don’t  stay  here,  now.” 

Again  she  pressed  her  to  her  breast — she  had  spoken 
in  a rapid  manner,  but  firmly — and  Florence  saw  her 
rejoin  them  in  the  other  room. 

And  now  Florence  began  to  hope  that  she  would  learn 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


m 


from  her  new  and  beautiful  mama,  how  to  gain  hef 
father’s  love  ; and  in  her  sleep  that  night,  in  her  lost  old 
home,  her  own  mama  smiled  radiantly  upon  the  hope^ 
and  blessed  it.  Dreaming  Florence  I 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

The  Opening  of  the  Eyes  of  Mrs.  Chick. 

Miss  Tox,  all  unconscious  of  any  such  rare  appear- 
ances in  connexion  with  Mr.  Dombey’s  house,  as  scaffold- 
ings and  ladders,  and  men  with  their  heads,  tied  up  in 
pocket-handkerchiefs,  glaring  in  at  the  windows  like 
hying  genii  or  strange  birds, — having  breakfasted  one 
morning  at  about  this  eventful  period  of  time,  on  her 
customary  viands  ; to  wit,  one  French  roll  rasped,  one 
egg  new  laid  (or  warranted  to  be),  and  one  little  pot  of 
tea,  wherein  was  infused  one  little  silver  scoop-full  of 
that  herb  on  behalf  of  Miss  Tox,  and  one  little  silver 
* scoop-full  on  behalf  of  the  tea-pot — a flight  of  fancy  in 
which  good  housekeepers  delight ; went  up-stairs  to  set 
forth  the  bird  waltz  on  the  harpsichord,  to  water  and 
arrange  the  plants,  to  dust  the  nick-nacks,  and  accord- 
ing to  her  daily  custom,  to  make  her  little  drawing-room 
the  garland  of  Princess’s-place. 

Miss  Tox  endued  herself  with  the  pair  of  ancient 
gloves,  like  dead  leaves,  in  which  she  was  accustomed 
to  perform  these  avocations — hidden  from  human  sight 
at  other  times  in  a table  drawer — and  went  methodically 
to  work  ; beginning  with  the  bird  waltz  ; passing,  by  a 
natural  association  of  ideas,  to  her  bird — a very  high- 
shouldered canary^  stricken  in  years,  and  much  rumpled, 
but  a piercing  singer,  as  Princess’s-place  well  knew  : 
taking,  next  in  order,  the  little  china  ornaments,  paper 
fly-cages,  and  so  forth  ; and  coming  round,  in  good  time, 
to  the  plants,  which  generally  required  to  be  snipped 
here  and  there  with  a pair  of  scissors,  for  some  botanical 
reason  that  was  very  powerful  with  Miss  Tox. 

Miss  Tox  was  slow  in  coming  to  the  plants,  this  morn- 
ing. The  weather  was  warm,  the  wind  southerly  ; and 
there  was  a sigh  of  the  summer  time  in  Princess’s-place, 
that  turned  Miss  Tox’s  thoughts  upon  the  country.  The 
pot-boy  attached  to  the  Princess’s  Arms  had  come  out 
with  a can  and  trickled  water,  in  a flowing  pattern,  all 
over  Princess’s-place,  and  it  gave  the  weedy  ground  a 
fresh  scent  — quite  a growing  scent.  Miss  Tox  said. 
There  was  a tiny  blink  of  sun  peeping  in  from  the  grea^ 
Btreet  round  the  corner,  and  the  smoky  sparrows  hopped 
fever  it  and  back  again,  brightening  as  they  passed : of 


148 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


batlied  In  it  like  a stream,  and  became  glorified  sparrowjg, 
unconnected  witli  chimneys.  Legends  in  praise  of  Gin* 
ger  Beer,  with  pictorial  representations  of  thirsty  cus» 
tomers  submerged  in  the  effervescence,  or  stunned  by 
the  flying  corks,  were  conspicuous  in  the  window  of  the 
Princess's  Arms.  They  were  making  late  hay,  some- 
where out  of  town  ; and  though  the  fragrance  had  a long 
way  to  come,  and  many  counter  fragrances  to  contend 
with  among  the  dwellings  of  the  poor  (may  God  reward 
the  worthy  gentlemen  who  stickle  for  the  plague  as  part 
and  parcel  of  the  wisdom  of  our  ancestors,  and  who  do 
their  little  best  to  keep  those  dwellings  miserable  !),  yet 
it  was  wafted  faintly  into  Princess's  place,  whispering 
of  nature  and  her  wholesome  air,  as  such  things  will, 
even  unto  prisoners  and  captives,  and  those  who  are 
desolate  and  oppressed. 

Miss  Tox  sat  down  upon  the  window-seat,  and  thought 
of  her  good  papa  deceased — Mr.  Tox,  of  the  Customs  De- 
partment of  the  public  service  ; and  of  her  childhood, 
passed  at  a seaport,  among  a considerable  quantity  of  cold 
tar,  and  some  rusticity.  She  leP  into  a softened  remem- 
bruice  of  meadows  in  old  time,  gleaming  with  butter- 
cups, like  so  many  inverted  ^rmaments  of  golden  stars  ; 
and  how  she  had  made  chains  of  dandelion  stalks  for 
youthful  vowers  of  eternal  constancy,  dressed  chiefly  in 
nankeen  ; and  how  soon  those  fetters  had  withered  and 
broken . 

Sitting  on  the  window-seat,  and  looking  out  upon  the 
sparrows  and  the  blink  of  sun.  Miss  Tox  thought  likewise 
of  her  good  mama  deceased— sister  to  the  owner  of  the 
powdered  head  and  pigtail — of  her  virtues,  and  her  rheu- 
matism. And  when  a man  with  bulgy  legs,  and  a rough 
voice,  and  a heavy  basket  on  his  head  that  crushed  his 
hat  into  a mere  black  muffin,  came  crying  flowers  down 
Princess's-place,  making  his  timid  little  roots  of  daisies 
shudder  in  the  vibration  of  every  yell  he  gave,  as  though 
he  had  been  an  ogre  hawking  little  children,  summer  rec- 
ollections were  so  strong  upon  Miss  Tox,  that  she  shook 
her  head,  and  murmured  she  would  be  comparatively  old 
before  she  knew  it — which  seemed  likely. 

In  her  pensive  mood.  Miss  Tox's  thoughts  went  wan- 
dering on  Mr.  Dombey's  track  ; probably  because  the  ma- 
jor had  returned  home  to  his  lodgings  opposite,  and  had 
just  bowed  to  her  from  his  window.  What  other  reason, 
could  Miss  Tox  have  for  connecting  Mr.  Dombey  with 
her  summer  days  and  dandelion  fetters  ? Was  he  more 
cheerful?  thought  Miss  Tox,  Was  he  reconciled  to  the 
decrees  of  fate?  Would  he  ever  marry  again;  and  if 
yes,  whom  ? What  sorr  of  person  now  ! 

A flush— it  was  warm  weather — overspread  Miss  Tox's 
face,  as,  while  entertaining  these  meditations,  she  turned 


149 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


boT  head,  and  was  surprised  hy  the  reflection  of  her 
tnoughtful  image  in  the  chimney-glass.  Another  flush 
succeeded  when  she  saw  a little  carriage  drive  into  Prin- 
cess’s-place,  and  make  straight  for  her  own  door.  Miss 
Tox  arose,  took  up  her  scissors  hastily,  and  so  coming, 
at  last,  to  the  plants,  was  very  busy  with  them  when 
Mrs.  Chick  entered  the  room. 

“How  is  my  sweetest  friend?”  exclaimed  Miss  Tox, 
with  open  arms. 

A little  stateliness  was  mingled  with  Miss  Tox^s  sweet- 
est friend's  demeanour,  but  she  kissed  Miss  Tox,  and  said, 

Lucretia,  thank  you,  I am  pretty  well.  I hope  you  are 
the  same.  Hem  ! ” 

Mrs.  Chick  w^as  labouring  under  a peculiar  little  mon- 
osyllabic cough  ; a sort  of  primer,  or  easy  introduction  to 
the  art  of  coughing. 

“ You  call  very  early,  and  how  kind  that  is,  my  dear  !” 
pursued  Miss  Tox.  “ Now  have  you  breakfasted  ?” 

“ Thank  you,  Lucretia,”  said  Mrs.  Chick,  “ I have.  I 
took  an  early  breakfast  ” — the  good  lady  seemed  curious 
en  the  subject  of  Princess’s-place,  and  looked  all  round 
it  as. she  spoke,  “ with  my  brother,  who  has  come  home.” 

“ He  is  better,  I trust,  my  love,”  faltered  Miss  Tox. 

“ He  is  greatly  better,  thank  you.  Hem  ! ” 

*‘My  dear  Louisa  must  be  careful  of  that  cough,”  re- 
marked Miss  Tox. 

“ It’s  nothing,”  returned  Mrs.  Chick.  “ It's  merely 
change  of  weather.  We  must  expect  change.” 

“ Of  weather  ?”  asked  Miss  Tox,  in  her  simplicity. 

“ Of  everything,”  returned  Mrs.  Chick.  “ Of  course 
we  must.  It's  a world  of  change.  Any  one  would  sur- 
prise me  very  much,  Lucretia,  and  wmuld  greatly  alter 
my  opinion  of  their  understanding,  if  they  attempted 
to  contradict  or  evade  what  is  so  perfectly  evident. 
Change  ! ” exclaimed  Mrs.  Chick , with  severe  philosophy. 
“ Why,  my  gracious  me,  what  is  there  that  does  not 
change  ! even  the  silkworm,  who  I am  sure  might  be 
supposed  not  to  trouble  itself  about  such  subjects, 
changes  into  all  sorts  of  unexpected  things  continually.” 

“ My  Louisa,”  said  the  mild  Miss  Tox,  “is  ever  happ^ 
in  her  illustrations.” 

“You  are  so  kind,  Lucretia,”  returned  Mrs.  Chick,  a 
little  softened,  “as  to  say  so,  and  to  think  so,  I believe. 
I hope  neither  of  us  may  ever  have  any  cause  to  lessen 
our  opinion  of  the  other,  Lucretia.” 

“I  am  sure  of  it,”  returned  Miss  Tox. 

Mrs.  Chick  coughed  as  before,  and  drew  lines  on  the  cal* 
pet  with  the  ivory  end  of  her  parasol.  Miss  Tox,  who 
had  experience  of  her  fair  friend,  and  knew  that  under 
the  pressure  of  any  slight  fatigue  or  vexation  she  v/as 


150 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


prone  to  a discursive  kind  of  irritability,  availed  herself 
of  the  pause  to  change  the  subject. 

Pardon  me,  my  dear  Louisa,’’  said  Miss  Tox,  but 
have  I caught  sight  of  the  manly  form  of  Mr.  Chick  in 
the  carriage  ? ” 

He  is  there,”  said  Mrs.  Chick,  '"but  pray  leave  hinj 
there.  He  has  his  newspaper,  and  would  be  quite  con- 
tented for  the  next  two  hours.  Go  on  with  your  flowers, 
Lucretia,  and  allow  me  to  sit  here  and  rest.” 

"My  Louisa  know^s,”  observed  Miss  Tox,  "that  be- 
tween friends  like  ourselves,  any  approach  to  ceremony 
would  be  out  of  the  question.  Therefore — Therefore 
Miss  Tox  finished  the  sentence,  not  in  words  but  actions  ; 
and  putting  on  her  gloves  again,  which  she  had  taken 
off,  and  aiTiiing  herself  once  more  with  her  scissors,  be- 
gan to  snip  and  clip  among  the  leaves  with  microscdpie 
industry. 

" Florence  has  returned  home  also,”  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
after  sitting  silent  for  some  time,  with  her  head  on  one 
side,  and  her  parasol  sketching  on  the  floor  ; " and  really 
Florence  is  a great  deal  too  old  now,  to  continue  to  lead 
that  solitary  life  to  which  she  has  been  accustomed.  Of 
course  she  is.  There  can  be  no  doubt  about  it,  I should 
have  very  little  respect,  indeed,  for  anybody  who  could 
advocate  a different  opinion.  Whatever  my  wishes 
might  be,  I could  not  respect  them.  We  cannot  com-, 
mand  our  feelings  to  such  an  extent  as  that.” 

Miss  Tox  assented,  without  being  particular  as  to  the 
intelligibility  of  the  proposition. 

" If  she’s  a strange  girl,”  said  Mrs.  Chick,  " and  if  my 
brother  Paul  cannot  feel  perfectly  comfortable  in  her  so- 
ciety, after  all  the  sad  things  that  have  happened,  and  all 
the  terrible  disappointments  that  have  been  undergone, 
then,  what  is  the  reply  ? That  he  must  make  an  effort. 
That  he  is  bound  to  make  an  effort.  We  have  always 
been  a family  remarkable  for  effort.  Paul  is  at  the 
head  of  the  family  ; almost  the  only  representative  of  it 
left—for  what  am  I — /am  of  no  consequence — ” 

" My  dearest  love,”  remonstrated  Miss  Tox. 

Mrs.  Chick  dried  her  eyes,  which  were,  for  the  mo- 
ment, overflowing  ; and  proceeded  : 

" And  consequently  he  is  more  than  ever  bound  to 
make  an  effort.  And  though  his  having  done  so,  comes 
upon  me  wuth  a sort  of  shock — for  mine  is  a very  weak 
and  foolish  nature  ; which  is  anything  but  a blessing  I 
am  sure  ; I often  wish  my  heart  Vv^as  a marble  slab,  or 
a paving  stone — ” 

"My  sweet  Louisa,”  remonstrated  Miss  Tox  again. 

" Still,  it  is  a triumph  to  me  to  know  that  he  is  so 
true  to  himself,  and  to  his  name  of  Dombey  ; although 
Of  course,  1 always  knew  he  would  be.  I only  hope,” 


bombey  and  son. 


151 


said  Mrs.  Chick,  after  a pause,  ''  that  she  maybe  worthy 
of  the  name  too.^' 

Miss  Tox  filled  a little  green  watering-pot  from  a jug, 
and  happening  to  look  up  when  she  had  done  so,  was  so 
surprised  by  the  amount  of  expression  Mrs.  Chick  had 
conveyed  into  her  face,  and  was  bestowing  upon  her, 
that  siie  put  the  little  watering-pot  on  the  table  for  the 
present,  and  sat  down  near  it. 

‘‘My  dear  Louisa,’'  said  Miss  Tox,  “will  it  be  the 
feast  satisfaction  to  you,  if  I venture  to  observe  in  refer- 
ence to  ^that  remark,  that  I,  as  a humble  individual, 
think  your  sweet  niece  in  every  way  most  promising  ! ” 

“ What  do  you  mean,  Lucretia?”  returned  Mrs. 
Chick,  with  increased  stateliness  of  manner.  “ To  wha^ 
remark  of  mine,  my  dear,  do  you  refer?  ” 

‘ ‘ Her  being  worthy  of  her  name,  my  love,  ” replied 
Miss  Tox. 

“ If,”  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  solemn  patience,  “ I have 
not  expressed  myself  with  clearness,  Lucretia,  the  fault 
of  course  is  mine.  There  is,  perhaps,  no  reason  why  I 
should  express  myself  at  alf,  except  the  intimacy  that 
has  subsisted  between  us,  and  which  I very  much  hope, 
Lucretia — confidently  hope — nothing  will  occur  to  dis^ 
turb.  Because,  why  should  I do  anything  else  ? There 
is  no  reason  ; it  would  be  absurd.  But  I wish  to  express 
myself  clearly,  Lucretia  ; and  therefore  to  go  back  to 
that  remark,  I must  beg  to  say  that  it  was  not  intended 
to  relate  to  Florence  in  any  way.” 

“ Indeed  !”  returned  Miss  Tox. 

“ No,”  said  Mrs.  Chick  shortly  and  decisively. 

“ Pardon  me,  my  dear,”  rejoined  her  meek  friend  r 

but  I cannot  have  understood  it.  I fear  I am  dull.” 

Mrs.  Chick  looked  round  the  room  and  over  the  way  ; 
at  the  plants,  at  the  birds,  at  the  watering-pot,  at  almost 
everything  within  view,  except  Miss  Tox  ; and  finally 
dropping  her  glance  upon  Miss  Tox,  for  a moment,  on  its 
way  to  the  ground,  said,  looking  meanwhile  with  ele- 
vated eyebrows  at  the  carpet : 

“ When  I speak,  Lucretia,  of  her  being  worthy  of  the 
name,  I speak  of  my  brother  Paul’s  second  wife.  I be- 
lieve I have  already  said,  in  effect,  if  not  in  the  very 
words  I now  use,  that  it  is  his  intention  to  marry  a 
second  wife.” 

Miss  Tox  left  her  seat  in  a hurry,  and  returned  to  her 
plants  ; clipping  among  the  stems  and  leaves  v/ith  as 
little  favour  as  a barber  working  at  so  many  pauper 
heads  of  hair. 

“Whether  she  will  be  f rally  sensible  of  the  distinction 
conferred  upon  her,”  said  Mrs.  Chick,  in  a lofty  tone, 
“ is  quite  another  question.  I hope  she  may  be.  We 
are  bound  to  think  well  of  one  another  in  this  worldf 


153 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


and  I hope  she  may  be.  I have  not  been  advised  with, 
myself.  If  I had  been  advised  with,  I have  no  doubt 
my  advice  would  have  been  cavalierly  received,  and 
therefore  it  is  infinitely  better  as  it  is.  I much  prefer 
it,  as  it  is/^ 

Miss  Tox,  with  head  bent  down,  still  clipped  among 
the  plants.  Mrs.  Chick,  with  energetic  shakings  of  her 
own  head  from  time  to  time,  continued  to  hold  forth,  as 
if  in  defiance  of  somebody. 

If  my  brother  Paul  had  consulted  with  me,  which  he 
sometimes  does — or  rather,  sometirnes  used  to  do  ; for 
he  will  naturally  do  that  no  more  now,  and  this  is  a cir- 
cumstance which  I regard  as  a relief  from  responsibil- 
ity,’^ said  Mrs.  Chick,  hysterically,  ‘‘  for  I thank  Heaven 
I am  not  jealous — ” here  Mrs.  Chick  again  shed  tears : 
‘if  my  brother  Paul  had  come  to  me,  and  had  said, 
Louisa,  what  kind  of  qualities  would  you  advise  me  to 
look  out  for,  in  a wife?’  I should  certainly  hav^e  an- 
swered, ‘Paul,  you  must  have  family,  you  must  have 
beauty,  you  must  have  dignity,  you  must  have  con- 
nexion.’ Those  are  the  words  I should  have  used. 
You  might  have  led  me  to  the  block  immediately 
afterwards,”  said  Mrs.  Chick,  as  if  that  consequence 
were  highly  probable,  “but  I should  have  used  them. 
I should  have  said,  ‘ Paul ! you  to  marry  a second  time 
without  family  ! You  to  marry  without  beauty  ! You 
to  marry  without  dignity  ! You  to  marry  without  con- 
nexion ! There  is  nobody  in  the  world,  not  mad,  who 
could  dream  of  daring  to  entertain  such  a preposterous 
idea  ! ” 

Miss  Tox  stopped  clipping  ; and  with  her  head  among 
the  plants,  listened  attentively.  Perhaps  Miss  Tox 
thought  there  was  hope  in  this  exordium,  and  in  the 
v/armtli  of  Mrs.  Chick.  ^ 

“I  should  have  adopted  this  course  of  argument,” 
pursued  the  discreet  lady,  “ because  I trust  I am  not  a 
fool.  I make  no  claim  to  be  considered  a person  of 
superior  intellect — though  I believe  some  people  have 
been  extraordinary  enough  to  consider  me  so  ; one  so  lit- 
tle humoured  as  I am,  would  very  soon  be  disabused  of 
any  such  notion  ; but  I trust  I am  not  a down -right  fool. 
And  to  tell  me,”  said  Mrs.  Chick  with  ineffable  disdain, 
“that  my  brother  Paul  Dombey  could  ever  contemplate 
the  possibility  of  uniting  himself  to  anybody — I don’t 
care  who” — she  was  more  sharp  and  emphatic  in  that 
short  clause  than  in  any  other  part  of  her  discourse — 
“ not  possessing  these  requisites,  would  be  to  insult  what 
understanding  I lime  got,  as  much  as  if  I was  to  be  told 
that  I was  born  and  bred  an  elephant.  Which  I may 
be  told  next,”  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  resignation.  “It 
wouldn’t  surprise  me  at  all.  I. expect  it.” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


153 


In  tlie  moment^s  silence  that  ensued.  Miss  Toy’s  seis. 
sors  gave  a feeble  clip  or  two ; but  Miss  Tox’s  face  was 
still  invisible,  and  Miss  Tox’s  morning  gown  was  agitat- 
ed. Mrs.  Chick  looked  sidewise  at  her,  through  the  in- 
tervening plants,  and  went  on  to  say,  in  a tone  of  bland 
conviction,  and  as  one  dwelling  on  a point  of  fact  that 
hardly  required  to  be  stated  : 

Therefore,  of  course  my  brother  Paul  has  done  what 
was  to  be  expected  of  him,  and  what  anybody  might 
have  foreseen  he  would  do,  if  he  entered  the  marriage 
state  again.  I confess  it  takes  me  rather  by  surprise, 
however  gratifying  ; because  when  Paul  went  out  of 
town  I had  no  idea  at  all  that  he  would  form  any  at- 
tachment out  of  town,  and  he  certainly  had  no  attach- 
ment when  he  left  here.  However,  it  seems  to  be  ex- 
tremely desirable  in  every  point  of  view.  I have  no 
doubt  the  mother  is  a most  genteel  and  elegant. creature, 
and  I have  no  right  whatever  to  dispute  the  policy  of 
her  living  with  them  : which  is  PauTs  affair,  not  mine — 
and  as  to  Paul’s  choice,  herself,  I have  only  seen  her 
picture  yet,  but  that  is  beautiful  indeed.  Her  name  is 
beautiful  too,”  said  Mrs.  Chick,  shaking  her  head  with 
energy,  and  arranging  herself  in  her  chair  ; “ Edith  is 
at  once  uncommon,  as  it  strikes  me,  and  distinguished. 
Consequently,  Lucretia,  I have  no  doubt  you  will  be 
happy  to  hear  that  the  marriage  is  to  take  place  immedi- 
ately— of  course,  you  will  : ” great  emphasis  again  : 

and  that  you  are  delighted  with  this  change  in  the 
condition  of  my  brother,  who  has  shown  you  a great 
deal  of  pleasant  attention  at  various  times.” 

Miss  Tox  made  no  verbal  answer,  but  took  up  the  lit- 
tle watering-pot  with  a trembling  hand,  and  looked 
Vacantly  round  as  if  considering  what  article  of  furniture 
would  be  improved  by  the  contents.  The  room  door 
opening  at  this  crisis  of  Miss  Tox’s  feelings,  she  started, 
laughed  aloud,  and  fell  into  the  arms  of  the  person  en- 
tering ; happily  insensible  alike  of  Mrs.  Chick’s  indig- 
nant countenance,  and  of  the  major  at  his  window  over 
the  way,  who  had  his  double-barrelled  eye-glass  in  full 
action,  and  whose  face  and  figure  were  dilated  with 
Mephistophelean  joy. 

Not  so  the  expatriated  native,  amazed  supporter  of 
Miss  Tox’s  swooning  form,  who,  coming  straight  up-stairs, 
with  a polite  inquiry  touching  Miss  Tox’s  health  (in  ex- 
act pursuance  of  the  major’s  malicious  instructions),  had 
accidentally  arrived  in  the  very  nick  of  time  to  catch  the 
delicate  burden  in  his  arms,  and  to  receive  the  contents 
of  the  little  watering-pot  in  his  shoe  ; both  of  which 
circumstances,  coupled  with  his  consciousness  of  being 
dosely  w’atched  by  the  wrathful  major,  who  had  threat- 
ened the  usual  penalty  in  regard  of  every  bone  in  his 


154 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Eikin  in  case  of  any  failure,  combined  to  render  Mm  a 
moving  spectacle  of  mental  and  bodily  distress. 

For  some  moments,  this  afflicted  foreigner  remained 
clasping  Miss  Tox  to  bis  heart,  with  an  energy  of  actios 
in  remarkable  opposition  to  his  disconcerted  face,  wh^r 
that  poor  lady  trickled  slowly  down  upon  him  the  ve^g 
last  sprinklings  of  the  little  watering-pot,  as  if  he  were 
a delicate  exotic  (which  indeed  he  was),  and  might  be 
almost  expected  to  blow  while  the  gentle  rain  descended. 
Mrs.  Chick,  at  length  recovering  sufficient  presence  of 
mind  to  interpose,  commanded  him  to  drop  Miss  Tox  upon 
the  sofa  and  withdraw  ; and  the  exile  promptly  obeying, 
she  applied  herself  to  promote  Miss  Tox’s  recovery. 

But  none  of  that  gentle  concern,  which  usually  char- 
acterises the  daughters  of  Eve  in  their  tending  of  each 
other  ; none  of  that  freemasonry  in  fainting,  by  which 
they  are  generally  bound  together  in  a mysterious  bond 
of  sisterhood  ; was  visible  in  Mrs.  Chick’s  demeanour. 
Rather  like  the  executioner  who  restores  the  victim  to 
sensation  previous  to  proceeding  with  the  torture  (or  was 
wont  to  do  so,  in  the  good  old  times  for  which  ail  true 
men  wear  perpetual  mourning),  did  Mrs.  Chick  adminis- 
ter the  smelling-bottle,  the  slapping  on  the  hands,  the 
dashing  of  cold  water  on  the  face,  and  the  other  proved 
remedies.  And  when,  at  length,  Miss  Tox  opened  her 
eyes,  and  gradually  became  restored  to  animation  and 
consciousness,  Mrs.  Chick  drew  off  as  from  a criminal, 
and  reversing  the  precedent  of  the  murdered  king  of 
Denmark,  regarded  her  more  in  anger  than  in  sorrow. 

Lucretia  ! ” said  Mrs.  Chick.  I will  not  attempt 
to  disguise  what  I feel.  My  eyes  are  opened  all  at  one® 
I wouldn’t  have  believed  this,  if  a saint  had  told  it  to 
me.” 

I am  foolish  to  give  way  to  faintness,”  Miss  Tox 
faltered.  “ I shall  be  better  presently.” 

You  will  be  better  presently,  Lucretia  ! repealed 
Mrs.  Chick,  with  exceeding  scorn.  Do  you  suppose  I 
am  blind  ? Do  you  imagine  I am  in  my  second  child- 
hood ? No,  Lucretia  ! I am  obliged  to  you  ! ” 

Miss  Tox  directed  an  imploring,  helpless  kind  of  look 
towards  her  friend,  and  put  her  handkerchief  before 
her  face. 

‘^If  any  one  had  told  me  this  yesterday,”  said  Mrs. 
Chick  with  majesty,  or  even  half -an -hour  ago,  I 
should  have  been  tempted,  I almost  believe,  to  strike 
them  to  the  earth.  Lucretia  Tox,  my  eyes  are  opened 
to  you  all  at  once.  The  scales  ; ” here  Mrs.  Chick  cast 
down  an  Imaginary  pair,  such  as  are  commonly  used  in 
grocer’s  shops:  ‘‘  have  fallen  from  my  sight.  The  blind- 
ness of  my  confidence  is  past,  Lucretia.  It  has  been 


DOM  BEY  AND  SON. 


155 


abused  and  played  upon,  and  evasion  is  quite  out  of  the 
question  now;  I assure  you.” 

•'Oh  I what  do  you  allude  to  so  cruelly,  my  love?” 
asked  Miss  Tox,  through  her  tears. 

Lucretia,”  said  Mrs.  Chick,  ask  your  own  heart. 
I must  entreat  you  not  to  address  me  by  any  such  familiar 
term  as  you  have  just  used,  if  you  please.  I have  some 
self-respect  left,  though  you  may  think  otherwise.” 

'‘Oh,  Louisa  ! ” cried  Miss  Tox.  “ How  can  you  speak 
to  me  like  that  ? ” 

" How  can  I speak  to  you  like  that?”  retorted  Mrs. 
Chick,  who,  in  default  of  having  any  particular  argu- 
ment  to  sustain  herself  upon,  relied  principally  on  such 
repetitions  for  her  most  withering  effects.  " Like  that  \ 
You  may  well  say  like  that,  indeed  ! ” 

Miss  Tox  sobbed  pitifully. 

" The  idea  ! ” said  Mrs.  Chick,"  of  your  having  basked 
at  my  brother’s  fireside,  like  a serpent,  and  wound  your- 
self, through  me,  almost  into  his  confidence.  Lucre tia, 
that  you  might,  in  secret,  entertain  designs  upon  him, 
and  dare  to  aspire  to  contemplate  the  possibility  of 
his  uniting  himself  to  you  ! Why,  it  is  an  idea,”  said 
Mrs.  Chick  with  sarcastic  dignity,  " the  absurdity  of 
of  which  almost  relieves  its  treachery.” 

"Pray,  Louisa,”  urged  Miss  Tox,  "do  not  say  such 
dreadful  things.” 

" Dreadful  things  ! ” repeated  Mrs.  Chick.  " Dread- 
ful things  ! Is  it  not  a fact,  Lucretia,  that  you  have  just 
now  been  unable  to  command  your  feelings  even  before 
me,  whose  eyes  you  had  so  completely  closed  ? ” 

" I have  made  no  complaint,”  sobbed  Miss  Tox.  " I 
have  said  nothing.  If  I have  been  a little  overpowered 
by  your  news,  Louisa,  and  have  ever  had  any  lingering 
thought  that  Mr.  Dombey  was  inclined  to  be  particular 
towards  me,  surely  you  will  not  condemn  me.” 

" She  is  going  to  say,”  said  Mrs.  Chick,  addressing 
herself  to  the  whole  of  the  furniture,  in  a comprehen- 
sive glance  of  resignation  and  appeal,  " She  is  going  to 
say — I know  it — that  I have  encouraged  her  ! ” 

" I don’t  wish  to  exchange  reproaches,  dear  Louisa,” 
sobbed  Miss  Tox'  " NTor  do  I wish  'to  complain.  But, 
in  my  own  defence — ” 

"Yes,”  cried  Mrs.  Chick,  looking  round  the  room 
with  a prophetic  smile,  " that’s  what  she’s  going  to  say. 
I knew  it.  You  had  better  say  it.  Say  it  openly  ! Be 
open,  Lucretia  Tox,”  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  desperate 
sternness,  "whatever  you  are.” 

" In  my  own  defence,”  faltered  Miss  Tox,  " and  only 
in  my  own  defence  against  your  unkind  words,  my  dear 
Louisa,  I would  merely  ask  you  if  you  haven’t  often 


156  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

a 

favoured  sucli  a fancy,  and  even  said  it  might  happen, 
for  anything  we  could  tell  ? 

‘'  There  is  a point,"’  said  Mrs.  Chick,  rising,  not  as  if 
ghe  were  going  to  stop  at  the  floor,  but  as  if  she  were 
about  to  soar  up,  high,  into  her  native  skies,  " beyond 
which  endurance  becomes  ridiculous,  if  not  culpable.  I 
can  bear  much  ; but  not  too  much.  What  spell  was  on 
me  when  I came  into  this  house  this  day,  I don’t  know  ; 
but  I had  a presentiment — a dark  presentiment/’  said 
Mrs.  Chick,  with  a shiver,  "that  something  was  going 
to  happen.  Well  may  I have  had  that  foTe]3oding,  Lu- 
cretia,  when  my  confidence  of  many  years  is  destroyed  in 
isji  instant,  when  my  eyes  are  opened  all  at  once,  and 
when  I find  you  revealed  in  your  true  colours.  Luere- 
tia,  I have  been  mistaken  in  you.  It  is  better  for  us 
both  that  this  subject  should  end  here.  I wish  you  well, 
and  I shall  ever  wish  you  well.  But,  as  an  individual 
who  desires  to  be  true  to  herself  in  her  own  poor  posi- 
tion, whatever  that  position  may  be,  or  may  not  be — and 
as  the  sister  of  my  brother — and  as  the  sister-in-law  of 
my  brother’s  wdfe — and  as  a connexion  b^  marriage  of 
my  brother’s  wife’s  mother — may  I be  permitted  to  add, 
asaDombey? — I can  wish  you  nothing  else  hut  good, 
morning.  ” 

These  words,  delivered  with  cutting  suavity,  tempered 
and  chastened  by  a lofty  air  of  moral  rectitude,  carried 
the  speaker  to  the  door.  There  she  inclined  her  head  in 
a ghostly  and  statue-like  manner,  and  so  withdrew  to 
her  carriage,  to  seek  comfort  and  consolation  in  the  arms 
of  Mr.  Chick  Irer  lord. 

Figuratively  speaking,  that  is  to  say  ; for  th^  arms  of 
Mr.  Chick  were  full  of  his  newspapei*.  Neither  did  that 
gentleman  addi-ess  his  eyes  towards  his  wife  otherwise 
than  by  stealth.  Neither  did  he  ofier  any  consolation 
whatever.  In  short,  he  sat  reading,  and  humming  fag 
ends  of  tunes,  and  sometimes  glancing  furtively  at  her 
without  delivering  himself  of  a wwd,  good,  bad,  or  in- 
different. 

In  the  meantime  Mrs.  Chick  sat  swelling  and  bridling, 
and  tossing  her  head,  as  if  she  were  still  repeating  that 
solemn  formula  of  farewell  to  Lucretia  Tox.  At  length, 
she  said  aloud,  " Oh  the  extent  to  which  her  eyes 
had  been  opened  that  day  ! ” 

"To  which  your  eyes  have  been  opened,  my  dear  !” 
repeated  Mr.  Chick. 

" Oh,  don’t  talk  to  me  !”  said  Mrs.  Chick.  " If  you 
can  hear  to  see  me  in  this  state,  and  not  ask  me  what 
the  matter  is,  you  had  better  hold  your  tongue  for  ever.  ” 

" What  is  the  matter,  my  dear?”  asked  Mr.  Chick. 

"To  think,”  said  Mrs.  Chick,  in  a state  of  soliloquy, 
" that  she  should  ever  have  conceived  the  base  idea  of 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


157 


connecting  herself  with  our  family  by  a marriage  with 
Paul  ! To  think  that  when  she  was  playing  at  horse® 
with  that  dear  child  who  is  now  in  his  grave — I never 
liked  it  at  the  time — she  should  have  been  hiding  such  a 
double-faced  design  ! I wonder  she  was  never  afraid 
that  something  would  happen  to  her.  She  is  fortunate: 
if  nothing  does.” 

‘‘I  really  thought,  my  dear,”  said  Mr.  Chick  slowly^ 
after  rubbing  the  bridge  of  his  nose  for  some  time  with 
his  newspaper,  ‘‘  that  you  had  gone  on  the  same  tack 
yourself,  all  along,  until  this  morning ; and  had  thought 
it  would  be  a convenient  thing  enough,  if  it  could  have 
been  brought  about.” 

Mrs.  Chick  instantly  burst  into  tears,  and  told  Mr. 
Chick  that  if  he  wished  to  trample  upon  her  with  his 
boots,  he  had  better  do  it. 

But  with  Lucretia  Tox  I have  done,”  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
after  abandoning  herself  to  her  feelings  for  some  min- 
utes, to  Mr.  Chick's  great  terror.  “I  can  bear  to  resign 
Paul's  confidence  in  favour  of  one  w^ho,  I hope  and  trust, 
may  be  deserving  of  it,  and  with  whom  he  has  a perfect 
right  to  replace  poor  Fanny  if  he  chooses  ; 1 can  bear  to 
be  informed,  in  Paul’s  cool  manner,  of  such  a change  in 
Ms  plans,  and  never  to  be  consulted  until  all  is  settled 
and  determined  ; but  deceit  I can  not  bear,  and  with  Lu- 
cretia Tox  I have  done.  It  is  better  as  it  is,”  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  piously  ; “ much  better.  It  would  have  been  a 
long  time  before  I could  have  accommodated  myself 
comfortably  with  her,  after  this  ; and  I really  don't 
know,  as  Paul  is  going  to  be  very  grand,  and  these  are 
people  of  condition,  that  she  would  have  been  quite 
presentable,  and  might  not  have  compromised  myself. 
There's  a providence  in  everything  ; everything  works 
for  the  best ; I have  been  tried  to-day,  but,  upon  th© 
whole  I don’t  regret  it.” 

In  which  Christian  spirit,  Mrs.  Chick  dried  her  eyes^ 
and  smoothed  her  lap,  and  sat  as  became  a person  calm 
under  a great  wrong.  Mr.  Chick,  feeling  his  unworthi- 
ness no  doubt,  took  an  early  opportunity  of  being  set 
down  at  a street  corner  and  walking  awa}^  whistling, 
with  his  shoulders  very  much  raised,  and  his  hands  in 
his  pockets. 

While  poor  excommunicated  Miss  Tox,  who,  if  she 
were  a fawner  and  toad-eater,  was  at  least  an  honest  and 
a constant  one,  and  had  ever  borne  a faithful  friendship 
towards  her  impeacher,  and  had  been  truly  absorbed  and 
swallowed  up  in  devotion  to  the  magnificence  of  Mr. 
Dombey — while  poor  excommunicated  Miss  Tox  watered 
her  plants  with  her  tears,  and  felt  that  it  was  winter  in 
Princess's-place. 


158 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


^ CHAPTER  XXX. 

The  Interval  before  the  Marriage. 

Although  the  enchanted  house  was  no  more,  and  the 
working  world  had  broken  into  it,  and  was  hammering 
and  crashing  and  tramping  up  and  down  stairs  all  day- 
long, keeping  Diogenes  in  an  incessant  paroxysm  of  bark- 
ing from  sunrise  to  sunset — evidently  convinced  that  his 
enemy  had  got  the  better  of  him  at  last,  and  was  then 
sacking  the  premises  in  triumphant  defiance — there  was, 
at  first,  no  other  great  change  in  the  method  of  Flor- 
ence's life.  At  night,  when  the  workpeople  went  away, 
the  house  was  dreary  and  deserted  again  ; and  Florence 
listening  to  their  voices  echoing  through  the  hall  and 
staircase  as  they  departed,  pictured  to  herself  the  cheer- 
ful homes  to  which  they  were  returning,  and  the  children 
who  were  waiting  for  them,  and  was  glad  to  think  that 
they  were  merry  and  well  pleased  to  go. 

She  welcomed  back  the  evening  silence  as  an  old  friend, 
but  it  came  now  with  an  altered  face,  and  looked  more 
kindly  on  her.  Fresh  hope  was  in  it."  The  beautiful 
lady  who  had  soothed  and  caressed  her,  in  the  very  room 
in  which  her  heart  had  been  so  wrung,  was  a spirit  of 
promise  to  her.  Soft  shadows  of  the  bright  life  dawn- 
ing, when  her  father’s  affection  should  be  gradually  won, 
and  all,  or  much  should  be  restored,  of  what  she  had  lost 
on  the  dark  day  when  a mother’s  love  had  faded  with  a 
mother’s  last  breath  on  her  cheek,  moved  about  her  in 
the  twilight  and  were  welcome  company.  Peeping  at  the 
rosy  children  her  neighbours,  it  was  a new  and  precious 
sensation  to  think  that  they  might  soon  speak  together 
and  know  each  other  : when  she  would  not  fear  as  of  old, 
to  show  herself  before  them,  lest  they  should  be  grieved 
to  see  her  in  her  black  dress  sitting  there  alone  ! 

In  her  thoughts  of  her  new  mother,  and  in  the  love 
and  trust  overflowing  her  pure  heart  towards  her,  Flor- 
ence loved  her  own  dead  mother  more  and  more.  She 
had  no  fear  of  setting  up  a rival  in  her  breast.  The  new 
flower  sprang  from  the  deep-planted  and  long-cherished 
root,  she.  knew.  Every  gentle  word  that  had  fallen  from 
the  lips  of  the  beautiful  lady,  sounded  to  Florence  like 
an  echo  of  the  voice  long  hushed  and  silent.  How  could 
she  love  that  memory  less  for  living  tenderness,  when  it 
was  her  memory  of  all  parental  tenderness  and  love  ! 

Florence  was,  one  day,  sitting  reading  in  her  room,  and 
thinking  of  the  lady  and  her  promised  visit  soon — for  her 
book  turned  on  a kindred  subject — v/hen,  raising  her 
eyes,  she  saw  her  standing  in  the  doorway. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


159 


**  Mama  ! ” cried  Florence,  joyfully  meeting  her. 

Come  again  ! ” 

‘‘Not  mama  yet,”  returned  the  lady,  with  a serious 
smile,  as  she  encircled  Florence's  neck  with  her  ai*m. 

“But  very  soon  to  be,”  cried  Florence. 

“ Y ery  soon  now,  Florence  r very  soon.  ” 

Edith  bent  her  head  a little  so  as  to  press  the  blooming 
cheek  of  Florence  against  her  own,  and  for  some  few  mo- 
ments remained  thus  silent.  There  was  something  so 
very  tender  in  her  manner,  that  Florence  was  even  more 
sensible  of  it  than  on  the  first  occasion  of  their  meeting. 

She  led  Florence  to  a chair  beside  her,  and  sat  down  - 
Florence  looking  in  her  face,  quite  wondering  at  its  beau 
ty,  and  willingly  leaving  her  hand  in  hers. 

“Have  you  been  alone,  Florence,  since  I was  here 
last  ?” 

“ Oh  yes  ! ” smiled  Florence,  hastily. 

She  hesitated  and  cast  down  her  eyes  ; for  her  new 
mama  was  very  earnest  in  her  look,  and  the  look  was  in 
tently  and  thoughtfully  fixed  upon  her  face. 

“ I — I — am  used  to  be  alone,”  said  Florence.  “ I don'f 
mind  it  at  all.  Di  and  I pass  whole  days  together,  some 
times.”  Florence  might  have  said  whole  weeks,  and 
months. 

“ Is  Di  your  maid,  love  ? ” 

“ My  dog,  mama,  ” said  Florence,  laughing.  Susan 
is  my  maid.” 

“ And  these  are  your  rooms,  ” said  Edith,  looking  rounds 
“ 1 was  not  shown  these  rooms  the  other  day.  We  must 
have  them  improved,  Florence.  They  shall  be  made  the 
prettiest  in  the  house.” 

“If  I might  change  them,  mama,”  returned  Florence 
“ there  is  one  up-stairs  I should  like  much  better.” 

“Is  this  not  high  enough,  dear  girl?”  asked  Edith, 
smiling. 

“ The  other  was  my  brother's  room,”  said  Florence, 
“ and  I am  very  fond  of  it.  I would  have  spoken  to  papa 
about  it  when  I came  home,  and  found  the  workmea 
here,  and  everything  changing  ; but—” 

Florence  dropped  her  eyes,  lest  the  same  look  should 
make  her  falter  again. 

“—but  I was  afraid  it  might  distress  him  ; and  as  you 
said  you  would  be  here  again  soon,  mama,  and  are  the 
mistress  of  everything,  I determined  to  take  courage  and 
ask  you.” 

Edith  sat  looking  at  her,  with  her  brilliant  eyes  in- 
tent upon  her  face,  nntil  Florence  raising  her  own,  she, 
in  her  turn,  withdrew  her  gaze,  and  turned  it  on  the 
ground.  It  was  then  that  Florence  thought  how  differ- 
ent this  lady's  beauty  was,  from  what  she  had  supposed. 
She  had  thought  it  of  a proud  and  lofty  kind  ; yet  her 


160 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


manner  was  so  subdued  and  gentle,  tbat  if  sbe  had  been 
of  Florence’s  own  age  and  character,  it  scarcely  could 
Lave  invited  confidence  more. 

Except  when  a constrained  and  singular  reserve  crept 
over  her  ; and  then  she  seemed  (but  Florence  hardly  un- 
derstood this,  though  she  could  not  choose  but  notice  it, 
and  think  about  it)  as  if  she  were  humbled  before  Flor* 
ence,  and  ill  at  ease.  When  she  had  said  that  she  was 
not  her  mama  yet,  and  when  Florence  had  called  her 
the  mistress  of  everything  there,  this  change  in  her  was 
quick  and  startling  ; and  now,  while  the  eyes  of  Florence 
rested  on  her  face,  she  sat  as  though  she  would  have 
shrunk  and  hidden  from  her,  rather  than  as  one  about 
to  love  and  cherish  her,  in  right  of  such  a near  con- 
nexion. 

She  gave  Florence  her  ready  promise  about  her  new 
room,  and  said  she  would  give  directions  about  it  herself. 
She  then  asked  some  questions  concerning  poor  Paul ; 
and  when  they  had  sat  in  conversation  for  some  time 
told  Florence  she  had  come  to  take  her  to  her  own  home. 

“We  have  come  to  London  now,  my  mother  and  I,” 
said  Edith,  “and  you  shall  stay  with  us  until  I am  mar- 
ried. I wish  that  we  should  know  and  trust  each  other, 
Florence.  ” 

“You  are  very  kind  to  me,”  said  Florence,  “dear 
mama.  How  much  I thank  you  ! ” 

“ Let  me  say  now,  for  it  may  be  the  best  opportunity,” 
continued  Edith,  looking  round  to  see  that  they  wera 
quite  alone,  and  speaking  in  a lower  voice,  “ that  when 
I am  married,  and  have  gone  away  for  some  weeks,  I 
shall  be  easier  at  heart  if  you  will  come  home  here.  No 
matter  who  invites  you  to  stay  elsev/here,  come  home 
here.  It  is  better  to  be  alone  than — what  I would  say 
is,”  she  added,  checking  herself , “ that  I know  well  you 
are  best  at  home,  dear  Florence.” 

“ I will  come  home  on  the  very  day,  mama.” 

“Do  so.  I rely  on  that  promise.  Now,  prepare  to 
come  with  me,  dear  girl.  You  will  find  me  down  stairs 
when  you  are  ready.” 

Slowly  and  thoughtfully  did  Edith  wander  alone 
through  the  mansion  of  which  she  was  so  soon  to  be  the 
lady  : and  little  heed  took  she  of  all  the  elegance  and 
splendour  it  began  to  display.  The  same  indomit- 
able haughtiness  of  soul,  the  same  proud  scorn  expressed 
in  eye  and  lip,  the  same  fierce  beauty,  only  tamed  by  a 
sense  of  its  own  little  worth,  and  of  the  little  worth  of 
everything  around  it,  went  through  the  grand  saloons 
and  halls,  that  had  got  loose  among  the  shady  trees,  and 
raged  and  rent  themselves.  The  mimic  roses  on  the 
walls  and  floors  were  set  round  with  sharp  thorns,  that 
tore  her  breast ; in  every  scrap  of  gold  so  dazzling  to 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


161 


the  eye,  she  saw  some  hateful  atom  of  her  purchase- 
money  ; the  broad  high  mirrors  showed  her,  at  full 
length,  a woman  with  a iloble  quality  yet  dwelling  in 
her  nature,  who  was  too  false  to  her  better  self,  and  too 
debased  and  lost,  to  save  herself.  She  believed  that  all 
this  was  so  plain,  more  or  less,  to  all  eyes,  that  she  had 
no  resource  or  power  of  self-assertion  but  in  pride  : and 
with  this  pride,  which  tortured  her  own  heart  night 
and  day,  she  fought  her  fate  out,  braved  it,  and  defied 
it. 

Was  this  the  woman  whom  Florence — -an  innocent 
girl  strong  only  in  her  earnestness  and  simple  truth— 
could  so  impress  and  quell,  that  by  her  side  she  was  an- 
other creature,  with  her  tempest  of  passion  hushed,  and 
her  very  pride  itself  subdued?  Was  this  the  woman 
who  now  sat  beside  her  in  a carriage,  with  her  arms  en- 
twined, and  who,  while  she  courted  and  entreated  her 
to  love  and  trust  her,  drew  her  fair  head  to  nestle  on  her 
breast,  and  would  have  laid  down  life  to  shield  it  from 
wrong  or  harm  ? 

Oh,  Edith  ! it  were  well  to  die,  indeed,  at  such  a time  1 
Better  and  happier  far,  perhaps,  to  die  so,  Edith,  than 
to  live  on  to  the  end  I 

The  Honourable  Mrs.  Skewton,  who  was  thinking  of 
anything  rather  than  of  such  sentiments — for,  like  many 
genteel  persons  who  have  existed  at  various  times,  she 
set  her  face  against  death  altogether,  and  objected  to 
the  mention  of  any  such  low  and  levelling  upstart — had 
borrowed  a house  in  Brook- street,  Grosvenor- square, 
from  a stately  relative  (one  of  the  Feenix  brood),  who 
was  out  of  town,  and  who  did  not  object  to  lending  it, 
in  the  handsomest  manner,  for  nuptial  purposes,  as  the 
loan  implied  his  final  release  and  acquittance  from  all 
further  loans  and  gifts  to  Mrs.  Skewton  and  her  daugh- 
ter. It  being  necessary  for  the  credit  of  the  family  to 
make  a handsome  appearance  at  such  a time,  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton  with  the  assistance  of  an  accommodating  tradesman 
resident  in  the  parish  of  Mary-le-bone,  who  lent  out  all 
sorts  of  articles  to  the  nobility  and  gentry,  from  a ser- 
vice of  plate  to  an  army  of  footmen,  clapped  into  this 
house  a silver-headed  butler  (who  was  charged  extra  on 
that  account,  as  having  the  appearance  of  an  ancient 
family  retainer),  two  very  tall  young  men  in  livery,  and 

select  staff  of  kitchen  servants  ; so  that  a legend 
arose,  down-stairs,  that  Withers  the  page,  released  at 
once  from  his  numerous  household  duties,  and  from  the 
propulsion  of  the  wheeled  chair  (inconsistent  with  the 
metropolis),  had  been  several  times  observed  to  rub  his 
oyes  and  pinch  his  limbs,  as  if  he  misdoubted  his  hav 
Ing  overslept  himself  at  the  Lemington  milkman’s,  and 
being  still  in  a celestial  dream.  A variety  of  requisites 


163 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


in  plate  and  cliina  being  also  conveyed  to  the  same  es- 
tablishment from  the  same  convenient  source,  with  sev- 
eral miscellaneous  articles,  including  a neat  chariot  and 
a pair  of  bays,  Mrs.  Skew  ton  cushioned  herself  on  the 
principal  sofa,  in  the  Cleopatra  attitude,  and  held  her 
court  in  fair  state. 

And  how,”  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  on  the  entrance  of 
her  daughter  and  her  charge,  is  my  charming  Flor- 
ence?” You  must  come  and  kiss  me,  Florence,  if  you 
please,  my  love.” 

Florence  was  timidly  stooping  to  pick  out  a place  in 
the  white  part  of  Mrs.  Skewton’s  face,  when  that  lady 
presented  her  ear,  and  relieved  her  of  her  difficulty. 

Edith,  my  dear,”  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  “ positively,  I 
—stand  a little  more  in  the  light,  my  sweetest  Florence, 
for  a moment.” 

Florence  blushingly  complied. 

You  don’t  remember,  dearest  Edith,”  said  her  moth- 
er, what  you  were  when  you  were  about  the  same  age 
<ts  our  exceedingly  precious  Florence,  or  a few  years 
younger  ? ” 

‘‘  I have  long  forgotten,  mother.” 

For  positively,  my  dear,”  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  I do 
think  that  I see  a decided  resemblance  to  what  you  were 
then,  in  our  extremely  fascinating  young  friend.  And. 
it  shows,”  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  in  a lower  voice,  which 
conveyed  her  opinion  that  Florence  was  in  a very  unfin- 
ished state,  what  cultivation  will  do.” 

It  does,  indeed,”  was  Edith’s  stern  reply. 

Her  mother  eyed  her  sharply  for  a moment,  and  feel- 
ing herself  on  unsafe  ground,  said,  as  a diversion  : 

“My  charming  Florence,  you  must  come  and  kiss  me 
once  more,  if  you  please,  my  love.” 

Florence  complied,  of  course,  and  again  imprinted  her 
Hps  on  Mrs.  Skewton’s  ear. 

And  you  have  heard,  no  doubt,  my  darling  pet,”  said 
Mrs.  Skewton,  detaining  her  hand,  “ that  your  papa, 
whom  we  all  perfectly  adore  and  dote  upon,  is  to  b<^ 
married  to  my  dearest  Edith  this  day  week.” 

“ I knew  it  would  be  very  soon,”  returned  Florence, 

but  not  exactly  when.” 

“ My  darling  Edith,”  urged  her  mother,  gaily,  “is  it 
possible  you  have  not  told  Florence?” 

“ Why  should  I tell  Florence  ? ” she  returned,  so  sud- 
denly and  harshlj^,  that  Florence  could  scarcely  believe 
it  was  the  same  voice. 

Mrs.  Skewton  then  told  Florence,  as  another  and  safer 
diversion,  that  her  father  was  coming  to  dinner,  and  that 
he  would  no  doubt  be  charmingly  surprised  to  see  her  ; 
as  he  had  spoken  last  night  of  dressing  in  the  city,  and 
had  known  nothing  of  Edith’s  design,  the  execution  of 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


W6 


which,  according  to  Mrs.  Skewton’s  expectation,  would 
throw  him  into  a perfect  ecstacy.  Florence  was  troubled 
to  hear  this  ; and  her  distress  uecame  so  keen,  as  the 
dinner  hour  approached,  that  if  she  had  known  how  to 
frame  an  entreaty  to  be  suffered  to  return  home,  with- 
out involving  her  father  in  her  explanation,  she  would 
have  hurried  back  on  foot,  bareheaded,  breathless,  and 
alone,  rather  than  incur  the  risk  of  meeting  his  displeas- 
ure. 

As  the  time  drew  nearer,  she  could  hardly  breathe. 
She  dared  not  approach  a window,  lest  he  should  see  her 
from  the  street.  She  dared  not  go  up-stairs  to  hide  her 
emotion,  lest,  in  passing  out  at  the  door,  she  should  meet 
him  unexpectedly ; besides  which  dread  she  felt  as 
though  she  never  could  conie  back  again  if  she  were 
summoned  to  his  presence.  In  this  conflict  of  her  fears, 
she  was  sitting  by  Cleopatra's  couch,  endeavouring  to  un- 
derstand and  to  reply  to  the  bald  discourse  of  that  lady, 
when  she  heard  his  foot  upon  the  stair. 

‘‘  I hear  him  now  ! " cried  Florence,  starting.  ‘‘  He 
is  coming  ! " 

Cleopatra,  who  in  her  juvenility  was  always  playfully 
disposed,  and  who  in  her  self -engrossment  did  not  trou- 
ble herself  about  the  nature  of  this  agitation,  pushed 
Florence  behind  her  couch,  and  dropped  a shawl  over 
her,  preparatory  to  giving  Mr.  Dombey  a rapture  of  sur- 
prise. It  was  so  quickly  done  that  in  a moment  Flor- 
ence heard  his  awful  step  in  the  room. 

He  saluted  his  intended  mother-in-law,  and  his  in- 
tended bride.  The  strange  sound  of  his  voice  thrilled 
through  the  whole  frame  of  his  child. 

‘‘  My  dear  Dombey,"  said  Cleopatra,  come  here  and 
tell  me  how  your  pretty  Florence  is." 

Florence  is  very  well,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  advancing 
towards  the  couch. 

‘ ' At  home  ? " 

At  home,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

‘"My  dear  Dombey,"  returned  Cleopatra,  with  be- 
witching vivacity  ; ""  How  are  you  sure  you  are  not  de- 
ceiving me  ? I don’t  know  what  my  dearest  Edith  will 
say  to  me  when  I make  such  a declaration,  but  upon  my 
honour  I am  afraid  you  are  the  falsest  of  men,  my  clear 
Dombey. " 

Though  he  had  been  ; and  had  been  detected  on  the 
spot,  in  the  most  enormous  falsehood  that  was  ever  said 
or  done  ; he  could  hardly  have  been  more  disconcerted 
than  he  was,  v/hen  Mrs.  Skewton  plucked  the  shawl 
away,  and  Florence,  pale  and  trembling,  rose  before  him, 
like  a ghost.  He  had  not  yet  recovered  his  presence  of 
mind,  when  Florence  had  run  up  to  him,  clasped  her 
hands  round  his  neck,  kissed  his  face,  and  hurried  out  oi 


164 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


the  room.  He  looked  round  as  if  to  refer  the  matter  to 
somebody  else,  but  Edith  had  gone  after  Florence,  in- 
stantly. 

‘^Now  confess,  my  dear  Dombey,”  said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
giving  him  her  hand,  that  you  never  were  more  sur« 
prised  and  pleased  in  your  life.” 

I never  Tvas  more  surprised,”  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

‘'Nor  pleased,  my  dearest  Dombey?”  returned  Mrs, 
Skewton,  holding  up  her  fan. 

“ I — yes,  I am  exceedingly  glad  to  meet  Florence  here,” 
said  Mr.  Dombey.  He  appeared  to  consider  gravely  about 
it  for  a moment,  and  then  said,  more  decidedly,  “Yes,  I 
really  am  very  glad  indeed  to  meet  Florence  here.” 

“You  wonder  how  she  comes  here?”  said  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton,  “ don’t  you  ? ” 

“Edith,  perhaps — ” suggested  Mr.  Dombey. 

“ Ah  ! wicked  guesser  i ” replied  Cleopatra,  shaking 
her  head. 

‘ Ah  ! cunning,  cunning  man  I One  shouldn’t  tell  these 
things  ; your  sex,  my  dear  Dombey,  are  so  vain,  and  so 
apt  to  abuse  our  weaknesses  ; but,  you  know  my  open 
soul — very  well  ; immediately.” 

This  was  addressed  to  one  of  the  very  tall  young  men 
who  announced  dinner. 

“ But  Edith,  my  dear  Dombey,”  she  continued  in  a 
whisper,  “ when  she  cannot  have  you  near  her — and  as  I 
tell  her,  she  cannot  expect  that  always — will  at  lea'st  have 
near  her  something  or  somebody  belonging  to  you.  W ell, 
how  extremely  natural  that  is  ] And  in  this  spirit,  noth- 
ing would  keep  her  from  riding  off  to-day  to  fetch  our 
darling  Florence.  Well,  how  excessively  charming 
that  is ! ” 

As  she  waited  for  an  answer,  Mr.  Dombey  answered, 
“ Eminently  so.” 

“Bless  you,  my  dear  Dombey,  for  that  proof  of 
heart!”  cried  Cleopatra,  squeezing  his  hand.  “But  I 
am  growing  too  serious  1 Take  me  down-stairs,  like  an 
angel,  and  let  us  see  what  these  people  intend  to  give  us 
for  dinner.  Bless  you,  dear  Dombey  1” 

Cleopatra  skipping  off  her  couch  with  tolerable  brisk- 
ness, after  the  last  benediction,  Mr.  Dombey  took  her 
arm  in  his  and  led  her  ceremoniously  down-stairs  ; one 
of  the  very  tall  young  men  on  hire,  whose  organ  of 
veneration  was  imperfectly  developed,  thrusting  his 
tongue  into  his  cheek,  for  the  entertainment  of  the 
other  very  tall  young  man  on  hire,  as  the  couple  turned 
into  the  dining-room. 

Florence  and  Edith  were  already  there,  and  sitting  side 
by  side.  Florence  would  have  risen  when  her  father 
entered,  to  resign  her  chair  to  him  ; but  Edith  openly 


166  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

put  her  hand  upon  her  arm,  and  Mr.  Dombey  took  an 
opposite  place  at  the  round  table. 

The  conversation  was  almost  entirely  sustained  by 
Mrs.  Skewton.  Florence  hardly  dared  to  raise  her  eyes, 
lest  they  should  reveal  the  traces  of  tears  ; far  less  dared 
to  speak  ; and  Edith  never  uttered  a word,  unless  in 
answer  to  a question.  Verily,  Cleopatra  worked  hard,  for 
the  establishment  that  was  so  nearly  clutched  ; and  verily 
H should  have  been  a rich  one  to  reward  her  ! 

* ‘ And  so  your  preparations  are  nearly  finished  at  last, 
my  dear  Dombey?”  said  Cleopatra,  when  the  dessert  was 
put  on  the  table,  and  the  silver-headed  butler  had  with° 
drawn.  Even  the  lawyer’s  preparations  ! ” ^ 

^'Yes,  madame,”  replied  Mr.  Dombey;  ‘"the  deed  of 
Settlement,  the  professional  gentlemen  inform  me,  is  now 
ready,  and  as  I was  mentioning  to  you,  Edith  has  only  to 
do  us  the  favour  to  suggest  her  own  time  for  its  execu- 
tion.” 

Edith  sat  like  a handsome  statue  ; as  cold,  as  silent, 
tind  as  still. 

My  dearest  love,”  said  Cleopatra,  do  you  hear  what 
Mr.  Dombey  says?  Ah,  my  dear  Dombey  !”  aside  to  that 
gentleman,  How  her  absence,  as  the  time  approaches, 
reminds  me  of  the  days  when  that  most  agreeable  of  crea- 
tures, her  papa,  was  in  your  situation  !” 

I have  nothing  to  suggest.  It  shall  be  when  you 
please,”  said  Edith,  scarcely  looking  -over  the  table  at 
Mr.  Dombey. 

“ To-morrow  ? ” suggested  Mr.  Dombeyc 

‘‘If  you  please.” 

“ Or  would  next  day,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  “ suit  your 
engagements  better  ? ” 

“ I have  no  engagements.  I am  always  at  your  dis- 
posal. Let  it  be  when  you  like.” 

“No  engagements,  my  dear  Edith  ! ” remonstrated  her 
mother,  “ when  you  are  in  a most  terrible  state  of  finny 
s&ll  day  long,  and  have  a thousand  and. one  appointments 
with  all  sorts  of  tradespeople  ! ” 

“ They  are  of  your  making,”  returned  Edith,  turning 
on  her,  with  a slight  contraction  of  her  brow.  “You 
and  Mr.  Dombey  can  arrange  between  you.” 

“Very  true  indeed,  my  love,  and  most  considerate  of 
you  ! ” said  Cleopatra.  “ My  darling  Florence,  you 
must  really  come  and  kiss  me  once  more,  if  you  please, 
my  dear  !” 

Singular  coincidence,  that  these  gushes  of  interest  in 
Florence  hurried  Cleopatra  away  from  almost  every  dia- 
logue in  which  Edith  had  a share,  however  trifling  ! 
Florence  had  certainly  never  undergone  so  much  em- 
bracing,  and  perhaps  had  never  been,  unconsciously,  so 
useful  in  her  life 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


167 


Mr.  Dombey  was  far  from  quarreling,  in  bis  own  breast, 
with  the  manner  of  his  beautiful  b^etrothed.  He  had 
that  good  reason  for  sympathy  with  haughtiness  and 
coldness,  which  is  found  in  a fellow-feeling.  It  flattered 
him  to  think  how  these  deferred  to  him,  in  Edith’s  case, 
and  seemed  to  have  no  will  apart  from  his.  It  flattered 
him  to  picture  to  himself,  this  proud  and  stately  woman 
doing  the  honours  of  his  house,  and  chilling  his  guests 
after  his  own  manner.  The  dignity  of  Dombey  and  Son 
would  be  heightened  and  maintained,  indeed,  in  such 
hands. 

So  thought  Mr.  Dombey,  when  he  was  left  alone  at  the 
dining-table,  and  mused  upon  his  past  and  future  for- 
tunes : finding  no  uncongeniality  in  an  air  of  scant  and 
gloomy  state  that  pervaded  the  room  in  colour  a dark 
brown,  with  black  hatchments  of  pictures  blotching  the 
walls,  and  twenty-four  black  chairs,  with  almost  as  many 
nails  in  them  as  so  many  coflPms,  waiting  like  mutes, 
upon  the  threshold  of  the  Turkey  carpet ; and  two  ex- 
hausted negroes  holding  up  two  withered  branches  of  can- 
delabra on  the  sideboard,  and  a musty  smell  prevailing 
as  if  the  ashes  of  ten  thousand  dinners  were  entombed 
in  the  sarcophagus  below  it.  The  owner  of  the  bouse 
lived  much  abroad  * the  air  of  England  seldom  agreed 
long  with  a member  of  the  Feenix  family  ; and  the 
room  had  gradually  put  itself  into  deeper  and  still 
deeper  mourning  for  him,  until  it  was  become  so  funereal 
as  to  want  nothing  but  a body  in  it  to  be  quite  com 
plete. 

No  bad  representation  of  the  body,  for  the  nonce,  in 
his  unbending  form,  if  not  in  his  attitude,  Mr.  Dombey 
looked  down  into  the  cold  depths  of  the  dead  sea  of  ma- 
hogany on  which  the  fruit  dishes  and  decanters  lay  at 
anchor  ; as  if  the  subjects  of  his  thoughts  were  rising 
towards  the  surface,  one  by  one,  and  plunging  down 
again.  Edith  was  there  in  all  her  majesty  of  brow  and 
figure  ; and  close  to  her  came  Florence,  with  her  timid 
head  turned  to  him,  as  it  had  been,  for  an  instant,  when 
she  left  the  room  ; and  Edith’s  eyes  upon  her,  and  Edith’s 
hand  put  out  protectingly.  A little  figure  in  a low  arm- 
chair came  springing  next  into  the  light,  and  looked 
upon  him,  wonderingly  with  its  bright  eyes,  and  its  old- 
young  face,  gleaming  as  in  the  flickering  of  an  evening 
fire.  Again  came  Florence  close  upon  it,  and  absorbed 
his  whole  attention.  Whether  as  a foredoomed  diflSculty 
and  disappointment  to  him  ; whether  as  a rival  wdio  had 
crossed  him  in  his  way,  and  might  again  ; whether  as 
his  child,  of  whom,  in  his  successful  wooing,  he  could 
stoop  to  think,  as  claiming,  at  such  a time,  to  be  no  more 
estranged ; or  whether  as  a hint  to  him  that  the  mere 
appearance  of  caring  for  his  own  blood  should  be  main- 


168 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tained  in  Ms  new  relations  ; tie  best  knew.  Indiffer- 
ently we]l,  perhaps,  at  best ; for  marriage  company  and 
marriage  altars,  and  ambitious  scenes — still  blotted  here 
and  there  with  Florence — always  Florence — turned  up 
so  fast,  and  so  confusedly,  that*  he  rose,  and  went  up- 
stairs, to  escape  them. 

It  was  quite  late  at  night  before  candles  were  brought  ; 
for  at  present  they  made  Mrs.  Skewton’s  head  ache,  she 
complained  ; and  in  the  meantime  Florence  and  Mrs. 
Skewton  talked  together  (Cleopatra  being  very  anxious 
to  keep  her  close  to  herself),  or  Florence  touched  the 
piano  softly  for  Mrs.  Skewton's  delight ; to  make  no  men- 
tion of  a few  occasions  in  the  course  of  the  evening, 
when  that  affectionate  lady  was  impelled  to  solicit  an- 
other kiss,  and  which  always  happened  after  Edith  had 
said  anything.  They  were  not  many,  however,  for 
Edith  sat  apart  by  an  open  window  during  the  whole  time 
(in  spite  of  her  mother's  fears  that  she  would  take  cold), 
and  remained  there  until  Mr.  Dombey  took  leave.  He 
was  serenely  gracious  to  Florence,  when  he  did  so  ; and 
Florence  went  to  bed  in  a room  within  Edith's,  so  happy 
and  hopeful,  that  she  thought  of  her  late  self  as  if  it 
were  some  other  poor  deserted  girl  who  was  to  be  pitied 
for  her  sorrow  ; and  in  her  pity,  sobbed  herself  to  sleep. 

The  week  fled  fast.  There  were  drives  to  milliners, 
dress-makers,  jewellers,  lawyers,  florists,  pastry-cooks ; 
and  Florence  was  always  of  the  party.  Florence  was  to 
go  to  the  wedding.  Florence  was  to  cast  off  her  mourn- 
ing, and  to  wear  a brilliant  dress  on  the  occasion.  The 
milliner's  intentions  on  the  subject  of  this  dress — the 
milliner  was  a Frenchwoman,  and  greatly  resembled 
Mrs.  Skewton — were  so  chaste  and  elegant,  that  Mrs. 
Skewton  bespoke  one  like  it  for  herself.  The  milliner 
said  it  would  become  her  to  admiration,  and  that  all  the 
world  would  take  her  for  the  young  lady's  sister. 

The  week  fled  faster.  Edith  looked  at  nothing  and 
cared  for  nothing.  Her  rich  dresses  came  home,  and 
were  tried  on,  and  were  loudly  commended  by  Mrs. 
Skewton  and  the  milliners,  and  were  put  away  without 
a word  from  her.  Mrs.  Skewton  made  their  plans  for 
every  day,  and  executed  them.  Sometimes  Edith  sat  in 
the  carriage  when  they  went  to  make  purchases  ; some- 
times, when  it  was  absolutely  necessary,  she  went  into 
the  shops.  But  Mrs.  Skewton  conducted  the  whole  busk 
ness,  whatever  it  happened  to  be  ; and  Edith  looked  on 
as  uninterested  and  with  as  much  apparent  indifference 
as  if  she  had  no  concern  in  it.  Florence  might  perhaps 
have  thought  she  was  haughty  and  listless,  but  that  she 
was  never  so  to  her.  So  Florence  quenched  her  wonder  in 
her  gratitude  whenever  it  broke  out,  and  soon  subdued  it. 

The  week  fled  faster.  It  had  nearly  winged  its  flight 


BOjMBEY  aSD  son. 


169 


away.  The  last  uight  of  the  week,  the  night  before  the 
marriage,  was  come.  In  the  dark  room — for  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton’s  head  was  no  better  yet,  though  she  expected  to  re- 
cover permanently  to-morrow — were  that  lady,  Edith, 
and  Mr.  Dombey.  Edith  was  at  her  open  window  look- 
ing out  into  the  street ; Mr.  Dombey  and  Cleopatra  were 
talking  softly  on  the  sofa.  It  was  growing  late  ; and 
Florence  being  fatigued,  had  gone  to  bed. 

My  dear  Dombey,”  said  Cleopatra,  “ you  will  leave 
me  Florence  to-morrow,  when  you  deprive  me  of  my 
sweetest  Edith.” 

Mr.  DomJoey  said  he  would,  with  pleasure. 

“ To  have  her  abont  me,  here,  while  you  are  both  at 
Paris,  and  to  think  that,  at  her  age,  I am  assisting  in  the 
formation  of  her  ifiind,  my  dear  Dombey,”  said  Cleopatra, 
“ will  be  a perfect  balm  to  me  in  the  extremely  shattered 
state  to  v/hich  I shall  be  reduced.” 

Edith  turned  her  head  suddenly.  Her  listless  manner 
was  exchanged,  in  a moment,  to  one  of  burning  interest, 
and,  unseen  in  the  darkness,  she  attended  closely  to  their 
conversation. 

Mr.  Dombey  would  be  delighted  to  leave  Florence  ia 
such  admirable  guardianship. 

My  dear  Dombey,”  returned  Cleopatra,  ‘‘  a thousand 
thanks  for  your  good  opinion.  I feared  you  were  going, 
with  malice  aforethought,  as  the  dreadful  lawyers  say— 
those  horrid  proses  ! — to  condemn  me  to  utter  solitude.” 

Why  do  me  so  great  an  injustice,  my  dear  madam  ?” 
said  Mr.  Dombey. 

Because  my  charming  Florence  tells  me  so  positively 
she  must  go  home  to-morrow,”  returned  Cleopatra, 
‘‘that  I began  to  be  afraid,  my  dearest  Dombey,  you 
were  quite  a Bashaw.” 

“ I assure  you,  madam  ! ” said  Mr.  Dombey,  “ I have 
laid  no  commands  on  Florence  ; and  if  I had,  there  are 
no  commands  like  your  wish.” 

“ My  dear  Dombey,”  replied  Cleopatra,  “ what  a cour- 
tier you  are  ! Though  Fll  not  say  so,  either  ; for  cour- 
tiers have  no  heart,  and  yours  pervades  your  charming 
life  and  character.  And  are  you  really  going  so  early, 
my  dear  Dombey  ! ” 

Oh,  indeed  ! it  was  late,  and  Mr.  Dombey  feared  he 
must. 

“ Is  this  a fact,  or  is  it  all  a dream  ! ” lisped  Cleopatra. 
“ Can  I ]>e]ieve,  my  dearest  Dombey,  that  you  are  com- 
ing back  to  morrow  morning  to  deprive  me  of  my  sweet 
companion  ; my  own  Edith  ! ” 

Mr.  Dombey,  who  wa,s  accustomed  to  take  things  liter- 
ally, reminded  Mrs,  Skewton  that  they  were  to  meet 
first  at  the  church. 

The  pang,”  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  “of  consigning  a 
VoL.  la  —a 


170 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


child,  even  to  you,  my  dear  Dombey,  is  one  of  the  most 
excruciating  imaginable  ; and  combined  with  a naturally 
delicate  constitution,  and  the  extreme  stupidity  of  the 
v.pastry-cook  who  has  undertaken  the  breakfast,  is  almost 
too  much  for  my  poor  strength.  But  I shall  rally,  my 
dear  Dombey,  in  the  morning  ; do  not  fear  for  me,  or  be 
uneasy  on  my  account.  Heaven  bless  you  ! My  dearest 
Edith  ! she  cried  archly.  Somebody  is  going,  pet/* 

Edith,  who  had  turned  her  head  again  towards  the 
window,  and  whose  interest  in  their  conversation  had 
ceased,  rose  up  in  her  place,  but  made  no  advance  to- 
wards him,  and  said  nothing.  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a lofty 
gallantry  adapted  to  his  dignity  and  the  occasion,  be- 
took his  creaking  boots  towards  her,  ppt  her  hand  to  his 
lips,  and  said,  To-morrow  morning  I shall  have  the 
happiness  of  claiming  this  hand  as  Mrs.  Dorabey’s,”  and 
bowed  himself  solemnly  out. 

Mrs.  Skewton  rang  for  candles  as  soon  as  the  house- 
door  had  closed  upon  him.  With  the  candles  appeared 
her  maid,  v/ith  the  juvenile  dress  that  was  to  delude  th© 
world  to-morrow.  The  dress  had  savage  retribution  in 
it,  as  such  dresses  ever  have,  and  made  her  infinitely 
older  and  more  hideous  than  her  greasy  flannel  gown. 
But  Mrs.  Skewton  tried  it  on  with  mincing  satisfaction  ; 
smirked  at  her  cadaverous  self  in  the  glass,  as  she 
thought  of  its  killing  effect  upon  the  major  ; and  suffer- 
ing her  maid  to  take  it  off  again,  and  to  prepare  her  for 
repose,  tumbled  into  ruins  like  a house  of  painted  cards. 

All  this  time,  Edith  remained  at  the  dark  window 
looking  out  into  the  str^t.  When  she  and  her  mother 
were  at  last  left  alone,  ^e  moved  from  it  for  the  first 
time  that  evening,  and  came  opposite  to  her.  The  yawn- 
ing, shaking,  peevish  figure  of  the  mother,  with  her 
eyes  raised  to  confront  the  proud  erect  form  of  her 
daughter,  whose  glance  of  fire  was  bent  downward  upon 
her,  had  a conscious  air  upon  it,  that  no  levity  of  temper 
could  conceal. 

am  tired  to  death,**  said  she.  “You  can*t  be 
trusted  for  a moment.  You  are  worse  than  a child. 
Child  ! No  child  would  be  half  so  obstinate  and  undu- 
tiful.’* 

“ Listen  to  me,  mother,**  returned  Edith,  passing 
these  words  by  with  a scorn  that  would  not  descend  to 
trifle  with  them.  “You  must  remain  alone  here  until  I 
return.** 

“ Must  remain  alone  here,  Edith,  until  you  return?** 
repeated  her  mother. 

“ Or  in  that  name  upon  which  I shall  call  to-morrow 
to  witness  what  I do,  so  falsely,  and  so  shamefully,  I 
swear  I wi^^  refuse  the  hand  of  this  man  in  the  church, 
If  I do  not,  may  I fall  dead  upon  the  pavement  1 *' 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


171 


The  mother  answered  with  a look  of  quick  alarm,  in 
no  degree  diminished  by  the  look  she  met. 

‘'It  is  enough,”  said  Edith,  steadily,  “ thed  we  are 
what  we  are.  I will  have  no  youth  and  truth  dragged 
down  to  my  level.  I will  have  no  guileless  nature  un- 
dermined, corrupted,  and  perverted,  to  amuse  the  leisure 
of  a world  of  mothers.  You  know  my  meaning.  Flor- 
ence must  go  home.” 

“You  are  an  idiot,  Edith,”  cried  her  angry  mother. 
“ Do  you  expect  there  can  ever  be  peace  for  you  in  that 
house,  till  she  is  married,  and  away  ? ” 

“ Ask  me,  or  ask  yourself,  if  I ever  expect  peace  in 
that  house,”  said  her  daughter,  “and  you  know  the  an- 
swer.” 

“ And  am  I to  be  told  to-night,  after  all  my  pains  and 
labour,  and  when  you  are  going,  through  me,  to  be  ren- 
dered independent,”  her  mother  almost  shrieked  in  her 
passion,  while  her  palsied  head  shook  like  a leaf,  “ that 
there  is  corruption  and  contagion  in  me,  and  that  I am 
not  fit  company  for  a girl  ! What  are  you,  pray  ? What 
are  you  ? ” 

“ I have  put  the  question  to  myself,”  said  Edith,  ashy 
pale,  and  pointing  to  the  window,  “more  than  once 
when  I have  been  sitting  there,  and  something  in  the 
faded  likeness  of  my  sex  has  wandered  past  outside  ; and 
God  knows  I have  met  with  my  reply.  Oh  mother, 
mother,  if  you  had  but  left  me  to  my  natural  heart  when 
I too  was  a girl — a younger  girl  than  Florence — how  dif- 
ferent I might  have  been  ! ” 

Sensible  that  any  show  of  anger  was  useless  here,  her 
mother  •restrained  herself,  and  fell  a whimpering,  and 
bewailed  that  she  had  lived  too  long,  and  that  her  only 
child  had  cast  her  off,  and  that  duty  towards  parents 
was  forgotten  in  these  evil  days,  and  that  she  had  heard 
unnatural  taunts,  and  cared  for  life  no  longer. 

“ If  one  is  to  go  on  living  through  continual  scenes 
like  this,”  she  whined,  “ I am  sure  it  would  be  much 
better  for  me  to  think  of  some  means  of  putting  an 
end  to  my  existence.  Oh  ! The  idea  of  your  being 
Lny  daughter,  Edith,  and  addressing  me  in  such  ^ 
strain  !” 

“Between  us,  mother,”  returned  Edith,  mournfully, 
“the  time  for  mutual  reproaches  is  past.” 

“ Then  why  do  you  revive  it  ? ” whimpered  her  mother. 
“ You  know  that  you  are  lacerating  me  in  the  cruellest 
manner.  You  know  how  sensitive  I am  to  unkindness. 
At  such  a moment,  too,  when  I have  so  much  to  think  of, 
and  am  naturally  anxious  to  appear  to  the  best  advan- 
tage ! I wonder  at  you,  Edith.  To  make  your  mother 
a fright  ux)on  your  wedding-day  ! ” 

Edith  bent  the  same  fixed  look  upon  her,  as  she  sobbed 


m 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


and  rubbed  ber  eyes  ; and  said  in  tbe  same  low  steady 
voice,  which  had  neither  risen  nor  fallen  since  she  first 
addressed  her,  **  I have  said  that  Florence  must  go 
home.” 

“ Let  her  go  ! ” cried  the  afflicted  and  affnghfced  parent, 
hastily.  I am  sure  I am  willing  she  should  go.  What 
is  the  girl  to  me?  ” 

She  is  so  much  to  me,  that  rather  than  communi- 
cate, or  sufPer  to  be  communicated  to  her,  one  grain  of 
the  evil  that  is  in  my  breast,  mother,  I would  renounce 
you,  as  I would  (if  you  gave  me  cause)  renounce  him  in 
the  church  to-morrow,”  replied  Edith.  '‘Leave  her 
alone.  She  shall  not,  while  I can  interpose,  be  tampered 
with  and  tainted  by  the  lessons  I have  learned.  This  is 
no  hard  condition  on  this  bitter  night.” 

" If  you  had  proposed  it  in  a filial  manner,  Edith,” 
whined  her  mother,  " perhaps  not ; very  likely  not.  But 
such  extremely  cutting  words—” 

"They  are  past  and  at  an  end  between  us  now,”  said 
Edith.  " Take  your  own  way,  mother  ; share  as  you 
please  in  what  you  have  gained  ; spend,  enjoy,  make 
much  of  it ; and  be  as  happy  as  you  will.  The  object  of 
our  lives  is  won.  Henceforth  let  us  wear  it  silently. 
My  lips  are  closed  upon  the  past  from  this  hour.  I for- 
give you  your  part  in  to-morrow^s  wickedness.  May  God 
forgive  my  own  ! ” 

Without  a tremour  in  her  voice  or  frame,  and  passing 
onward  with  a foot  that  set  itself  upon  the  neck  of  every 
soft  emotion,  she  bade  her  mother  good  night,  and  re- 
paired to  her  own  room. 

But  not  to  rest : for  there  was  no  rest  in  the  'tumult 
of  her  agitation  when  alone.  To  and  fro,  and  to  and  fro, 
and  to  and  fro  again,  five  hundred  times,  among  the 
splendid  preparations  for  her  adornment  on  the  morrow ; 
with  her  dark  hair  shaken  down,  her  dark  eyes  flashing 
with  a raging  light,  her  broad  white  bosom  red  with  the 
cruel  grasp  of  the  relentless  hand  with  which  she  spurned 
it  from  her,  pacing  up  and  down  with  an  averted  head, 
as  if  she  would  avoid  the  sight  of  her  own  fair  person, 
and  divorce  herself  from  its  companionship.  Thus,  in 
the  dead  of  the  night  before  her  bridal,  Edith  Granger 
wrestled  with  her  unquiet  spirit,  tearless,  friendless, 
silent,  proud,  and  uncomplaining. 

At  length  it  happened  that  she  touched  the  open  door 
which  led  into  the  room  where  Florence  lay. 

She  started,  stopped,  and  looked  in. 

A light  was  burning  there,  and  showed  her  Florence 
in  her  bloom  of  innocence  and  beauty,  fast  asleep.  Edith 
held  her  breath,  and  felt  herself  drawn  on  towards  her. 

Drawn  nearer,  nearer,  nearer  yet ; at  last,  drawn  so 
near,  that  stooping  down,  she  pressed  her  lips  to  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


173 


fentle  hand  that  lay  outside  the  bed,  and  put  it  softly  to 
er  neck.  Its  touch  was  like  the  prophet's  rod  of  old 
upon  the  rock.  Her  tears  sprung  forth  beneath  it,  as 
she  sunk  upon  her  knees,  and  laid  her  aching  head  and 
streaming  hair  upon  the  pillow  by  its  side. 

Thus  Edith  Granger  passed  the  night  before  her  bri- 
dal, Thus  the  sun  found  her  on  her  bridal  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXXL 

The  Wedding. 

Dawn,  with  its  passionless  blank  face,  steals  shivering 
^ the  church  beneath  which  lies  the  dust  of  little  Paul 
ftstd  his  mother,  and  looks  in  at,  the  windows.  It  is  cold 
end  dark.  Night  crouches  yet,  upon  the  pavement,  and 
broods,  sombre  and  he?  vy,  in  nooks  and  corners  of  the 
building.  The  steeple-clock,  perched  up  above  the 
houses,  emerging  from  beneath  another  of  the  countless 
ripples  in  the  tide  of  time  that  regularly  roll  and  break 
on  the  eternal  shore,  is  grayly  visible,  like  a stone  bea- 
con, recording  how  the  sea  flows  on  ; but  within  doors, 
dawn,  at  first,  can  only  peep  at  night,  and  see  that  it  is 
there. 

Hovering  feebly  round  the  church,  and  looking  in, 
dawn  moans  and  weeps  for  its  short  reign,  and  its  tears 
trickle  on  the  window -glass,  and  the  trees  against  the 
chnrch-w^all  bow  their  heads,  and  wring  their  many 
hands  in  sympathy.  Night,  growing  pale  before  it, 
gradually  fades  out  of  the  church,  but  lingers  in  the 
vaults  below,  and  sits  upon  the  coffins.  And  now  comes 
bright  day,  burnishing  the  steeple-clock,  and  reddening 
the  spire,  and  drying  up  the  tears  of  dawn,  and  stifling 
its  complaining  ; and  the  scared  dawn,  following  the 
night,  and  chasing  it  from  its  last  refuge,  shrinks  into  the 
vaults  itself  and  hides,  with  a frightened  face,  among 
the  dead,  until  night  returns,  refreshed,  to  drive  it  out. 

And  now,  the  mice,  who  have  been  busier  with  the 
prayer-books  than  their  proper  owners,  and  wdth  the 
hassocks,  more  worn  by  their  little  teeth  than  by  human 
knees,  hide  their  bright  eyes  in  their  holes,  and  gather 
close  together  in  affright  at  the  resounding  clashing  of 
the  church-door.  For  the  beadle,  that  man  of  power, 
comes  early  this  morning  wdth  the  sexton  ; and  Mrs. 
Miff,  the  wheezy  little  pew^-opener — a mighty  dry  old 
lady,  sparely  dressed,  with  not  an  inch  of  fulness  any- 
where about  her — is  also  here,  and  has  been  waiting  at 
the  church -gate  half-an-hour,  as  her  place  is,  for  the 
beadle. 


174 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


A vinegary  face  lias  Mrs.  Miff,  aiid  a mortified  bonnet^ 
and  eke  a thirsty  soul  for  sixpences  and  shillings.  Beck» 
oning  to  stray  people  to  come  into  pews,  has  given  Mrs. 
Miff  an  air  of  mystery  ; and  there  is  reservation  in  the 
eye  of  Mrs.  Miff,  as  always  knowing  of  a softer  seat,  but 
having  her  suspicions  of  the  fee.  There  is  no  such  fact 
as  Mr.  Miff,  nor  has  there  been  these  twenty  years,  and 
Mrs.  Miff  would  rather  not  allude  to  him.  He  held  some 
had  opinions,  it  would  seem.,  about  free-seats ; and 
though  Mrs.  Miff  hopes  he  may  be  gone  upward,  she 
couldn’t  positively  undertake  to  say  so. 

Busy  is  Mrs.  Miff  this  morning  at  the  church-door, 
beating  and  dusting  the  altar-cloth,  the  carpet,  and  the 
cushions  ; and  much  has  Mrs.  Miff  to  say,  about  the 
wedding  they  are  going  to  have.  Mrs.  Miff  is  told,  that 
the  new  furniture  and  alterations  in  the  house  cost  full 
five  thousand  pound  if  they  cost  a penny ; and  Mrs.  Miff 
has  heard,  upon  the  best  authority,  that  the  lady  hasn’t 
got  a sixpence  wherewithal  to  bless  herself.  Mrs.  Miff 
remembers,  likewise,  as  if  it  had  happened  yesterday, 
the  first  wife’s  funeral ; and  then  the  christening,  and 
then  the  other  funeral ; and  Mrs.  Miff  says,  by-the-bye 
she’ll  soap-and- water  that  ’ere  tablet  presently,  against 
the  company  arrive.  Mr.  Sownds,  the  beadle,  who  is 
sitting  in  the  sun  upon  the  church-steps  all  this  time 
(and  seldom  does  anything  else,  except,  in  cold  weather, 
sitting  by  the  fire)  approves  of  Mrs.  Miff’s  discourse,  and 
asks  if  Mrs.  Miff  has  heard  it  said,  that  the  lady  is  un- 
common handsome  ? The  information  Mrs.  Miff  has  re- 
ceived being  of  this  nature,  Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle,  who, 
though  orthodox  and  corpulent,  is  still  an  admirer  of 
female  beauty,  observes,  with  unction,  yes,  he  hears  she 
is  a spanker — an  expression  that  seems  somewhat  forci- 
ble to  Mrs.  Miff,  or  would  from  any  lips  but  those  of 
Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle. 

In  Mr.  Dombey’s  house,  at  this  same  time,  there  is 
great  stir  and  bustle,  more  especially  among  the  women  : 
not  one  of  whom  has  had  a wink  of  sleep  since  four 
o’clock,  and  all  of  whom  were  full  dressed  before  six. 
Mr.  Towlinson  is  an  object  of  greater  consideration  than 
usual  to  the  housemaid,  and  the  cook  says  at  breakfast- 
time  that  one  wedding  makes  many,  which  the  bouse- 
maid  can’t  believe,  and  don’t  think  true  at  all.  Mr. 
Towlinson  reserves  his  sentiments  on  this  question ; 
being  rendered  something  gloomy  by  the  engagement  of 
a foreigner  with  whiskers  (Mr.  Towlinson  is  whiskerless 
himself),  who  has  been  hired  to  accompany  the  happy 
pair  to  Paris,  and  who  is  busy  packing  the  new  chariot. 
In  respect  of  this  personage,  Mr.  Towlinson  admits,  pres- 
ently, that  he  never  knew  of  any  good  that  ever  come 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


175 


of  foreigners  ; and  being  charged  by  the  ladies  with 
prejudice,  says,  look  at  Bonaparte,  who  was  at  the  head 
of  'em,  and  see  what  he  was  always  up  to  ! Which  the 
housemaid  says  is  very  true. 

The  pastry-cook  is  hard  at  work  in  the  funereal  room 
in  Brook-street,  and  the  very  tall  young  men  are  busy 
looking  on.  One  of  the  very  tall  young  men  already 
smells  of  sherry,  and  his  eyes  have  a tendency  to  become 
fixed  in  his  head,  and  to  stare  at  objects  without  seeing 
them.  The  very  tall  young  man  is  conscious  of  this  fail- 
ing in  himself  ; and  he  informs  his  comrade  that  it's  his 
**  exciseman."  The  very  tall  young  man  would  say  ex- 
citement, but  his  speech  is  hazy. 

The  men  who  play  the  bells  have  got  scent  of  the 
marriage  ; and  the  marrow-bones  and  cleavers  too  ; and 
a brass  band  too.  The  first  are  practising  in  a back  set- 
tlement near  Battlebridge  ; the  second  put  themselves  in 
communication,  through  their  chief,  with  Mr.  Towlinson, 
to  whom  they  offer  terms  to  be  bought  off  ; and  the  third, 
in  the  person  of  an  artful  trombone,  lurks  and  dodges 
round  the  corner,  waiting  for  some  traitor  tradesman  to 
reveal  the  place  and  hour  of  breakfast,  for  a bribe.  Ex- 
pectation and  excitement  extend  further  yet,  and  take  a 
wider  range.  From  Ball's  Pond  Mr.  Perch  brings  Mrs. 
Perch  to  spend  the  day  with  Mr.  Dombey's  servants,  and 
accompany  them,  surreptitiously,  to  see  the  wedding. 
In  Mr.  Toots’s  lodgings,  Mr.  Toots  attires  himself  as  if  he 
were  at  least  the  bridegroom  ; determined  to  behold  the 
spectacle  in  splendour  from  a secret  corner  of  the  gal- 
lery, and  thither  to  convey  the  Chicken.  For  it  is  Mr. 
Toots's  desperate  intent  to  point  out  Florence  to  the 
Chicken,  then  and  there,  and  openly  to  say,  ‘"Now, 
Chicken,  I will  not  deceive  you  any  longer  ; the  friend  I 
have  sometimes  mentioned  to  you  is  myself  ; Miss  Dom- 
bey  is  the  object  of  my  passion  ; what  are  your  opinions. 
Chicken,  in  this  state  of  things,  and  what,  on  the  spot, 
do  you  advise  ? " The  so-much-to-be  astonished  Chicken, 
in  the  meanwhile,  dips  his  beak  into  a tankard  of  strong 
beer,  in  Mr.  Toots’s  kitchen,  and  pecks  up  two  pounds 
of  beefsteaks.  In  Princess's-place,  Miss  Tox  is  up  and 
doing  ; for  she  too,  though  in  sore  distress,  is  resolved  to 
put  a shilling  in  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Miff,  and  see  the  cer- 
emony, which  has  a cruel  fascination  for  her,  from  some 
lonely  corner.  The  quarters  of  the  Wooden  Midshipman 
are  all  alive  ; for  Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  ankle-jacks  and 
with  a huge  shirt-collar,  is  seated  at  his  breakfast,  lis- 
tening to  Bob  the  Grinder  as  he  reads  the  marriage- 
service  to  him  beforehand,  under  orders,  to  the  end  that 
the  captain  may  perfectly  understand  the  solemnity  he 
is  about  to  witness : for  which  purpose,  the  captain 
gravely  lays  injunctions  on  his  chaplain,  from  time  to 


176  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

time,  to  ^‘^pat  about,”  or  to  bverbaul  that  ere  article 
again,”  or  to  stick  to  bis  own  duty,  and  leave  tbe  Amens 
to  him,  the  captain  ; one  of  which  he  repeats  whenever 
a pause  is  made  by  Rob  the  Grinder,  with  sonorous  sat- 
isfaction. 

Besides  all  this,  and  much  more,  twenty  nursery-maids 
in  Mr.  Dombey's  street  alone,  have  promised  twenty 
families  of  little  women,  whose  instinctive  interest  in 
nuptials  dates  from  their  cradles,  that  they  shall  go  and 
see  the  marriage.  Truly,  Mr.  Sounds  the  beadle  has 
good  reason  to  feel  himself  in  office,  as  he  suns  his  portly 
figure  on  the  church -steps,  waiting  for  the  marriage 
hour.  Truly,  Mrs.  Miif  has  cause  to  pounce  on  an  un- 
lucky dwarf  child,  with  a giant  baby,  who  peeps  in  at 
the  porch,  and  drive  her  forth  with  indignation  I ” 

Cousin  Feenix  has  come  over  from  abroad,  expressly 
to  attend  the  marriage.  Cousin  Feenix  was  a map 
about  town,  forty  years  ago  ; but  he  is  still  so  juvenile 
in  figure  and  in  manner,  and  so  well  got  up,  that  strangers 
are  amazed  when  they  discover  latent  wrinkles  in  his 
lordship’s  face,  and  crows’  feet  in  his  eyes  ; and  when 
they  first  observed  him,  not  exactly  certain  as  he  walks 
across  a room,  of  going  quite  straight  to  where  he 
wants  to  go.  But  Cousin  Feenix,  getting  up  at  half-past 
seven  o’clock  or  so,  is  quite  another  thing  from  Cousin 
Feenix  got  up : and  very  dim,  indeed,  he  looks,  while 
being  shaved  at  Long’s  Hotel,  in  Bond-street. 

Mr.  Dombey  leaves  his  dressing-room,  amidst  a general 
whisking  away  of  the  women  on  the  staircase,  who  dis- 
perse in  all  directions,  with  a great  rustling  of  skirts, 
except  Mrs.  Perch,  who  being  {but  that  she  always  is)  in 
an  interesting  situation,  is  not  nimble,  and  is  obliged  to 
face  him,  and  is  ready  to  sink  with  confusion  as  she 
curtesey may  Heaven  avert  all  evil  consequences  from 
the  house  of  Perch ! Mr.  Dombey  walks  up  to  the 
drawing-room  to  bide  his  time.  Gorgeous  are  Mr.  Dom- 
bey’s  new  blue  coat,  fawn-coloured  pantaloons,  and  lilac 
waistcoat ; and  a whisper  goes  about  the  house,  that  Mr.  . 
Dombey’s  hair  is  curled. 

A double-knock  announces  the  arrival  of  the  major, 
who  is  gorgeous  too,  and  wears  a whole  geranium  in  his 
button-hole,  and  has  his  hair  curled  tight  and  crisp,  as 
well  as  the  native  knows. 

‘‘  Dombey  ! ” says  the  major,  putting  out  both  hands, 

how  are  you  ? ” 

“ Major,”  says  Mr.  Dombey,  how  are  You  ?” 

''By  Jove,  sir,”  says  the  major,  "Joey  B.  is  in  such 
case  this  morning,  sir,” — and  here  he  hits  himself  haM 
upon  the  breast — "in  such  case  this  morning,  sir,  that^ 
damme,  Dombey,  he  has  half  a mind  to  make  a doublo 
marriage  of  it,  sir,  and  take  the  mother.” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


177 


Mr.  Dombey  smiles ; but  faintly,  even  for  him  f,  foa* 
Mr.  Dombey  feels  that  he  is  going  to  be  related  to  the 
mother,  and  that,  under  those  circumstances,  she  is  not  to 
be  joked  about. 

“ Dombey,”  says  the  major,  seeing  this,  I give  you 
joy.  I congratulate  you,  Dombey.  By  the  Lord,  sir,” 
says  the  major,  "‘you  are  more  to  be  envied,  this  day, 
than  any  man  in  England  ! ” 

Here  again,  Mr.  Dombey’s  assent  is  qualified  ; because 
he  is  going  to  confer  a great  distinction  on  a lady  ; and, 
no  doubt,  she  is  to  be  envied  most. 

‘'As  to  Edith.  Granger,  sir,”  pursues  the  major,  " there 
is  not  a woman  in  all  Europe  but  might — and  would, 
sir,  you  will  allow  Bagstock  to  add — and  would — give 
her  ears,  and  her  ear-rings  too,  to  be  in  Edith  Granger's 
place.” 

" You  are  good  enough  to  say  so,  major,”  says  Mr. 
Dombey. 

" Dombey,”  returns  the  major,  " you  know  it.  Let  us 
have  no  false  delicacy.  You  know  it.  Do  you  know  it, 
or  do  you  not,  Dombey  ? ” says  the  major,  almost  in  a 
passion. 

“ Oh,  really,  major — ” 

" Damme,  sir,”  retorts  the  major,  " do  you  know  that 
fact,  or  do  you  not  ? Dombey  ! Is  old  Joe  your  friend  ? 
Are  we  on  that  footing  of  unreserved  intimacy,  Dombey, 
that  may  justify  a man — a blunt  old  Joseph  B.,  sir — in 
speaking  out  ; or  am  I to  take  open  order,  Dombey,  and 
to  keep  my  distance,  and  to  stand  on  forms  ? ” 

"My  dear  Major  Bagstock,”  says  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a 
gratified  air,  "you  are  quite  warm.” 

" By  Gad,  sir,”  says  the  major,  " I am  warm.  Joseph 
B.  does  not  deny  it,  Dombey.  He  is  warm.  This  is  an 
occasion,  sir,  that  calls  forth  all  the  honest  sympathies 
remaining  in  an  old,  infernal,  battered,  used  up,  in- 
valided, J.  B.  carcase.  And  I tell  you  what,  Dombey — 
at  such  a time  a man  must  blurt  out  what  he  feels,  or 
put  a muzzle  on  : and  Joseph  Bagstock  tells  you  to  your 
face,  Dombey,  as  he  tells  his  club  behind  your  back, 
that  he  never  will  be  muzzled  when  Paul  Dombey  is  in 
question.  Now,  damme,  sir,”  concludes  the  major,  with 
great  firmness,  " what  do  you  make  of  that  ? ” 

" Major,”  says  Mr.  Dombey,  " I assure  you  that  I am 
really  obliged  to  you.  I had  no  idea  of  checking  your 
too  partial  friendship.” 

" Not  too  partial,  sir,”  exclaims  the  choleric  major. 
" Dombey,  I deny  it ! ” 

" Your  friendship  I will  say  then,”  pursues  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, "on  any  account.  Nor  can  I forget,  major,  on 
such  an  occasion  as  the  present,  how  much  I am  iis.« 
debted  to  it.” 


178 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Dombey,”  says  the  major,  with  appropriate  action, 
that  is  the  hand  of  Joseph  Bagstock  ; of  plain  old  Joey 
B.,  sir,  if  yon  like  that  better  ! That  is  the  hand,  of 
which  His  Royal  Highness  the  late  Duke  of  York  did  me 
the  honour  to  -observe,  sir,  to  His  Royal  Highness  th^ 
late  Duke  of  Kent,  that  it  was  the  hand  of  Josh.  ; a 
rough  and  tough,  and  possibly  an  up- to- snuff,  old  vag- 
abond. Hombey,  may  the  present  moment  be  the  least 
unhappy  of  our  lives.  God  bless  you  ! 

Now,  enters  Mr.  Carker,  gorgeous  likewise,  and  smil- 
ing like  a wedding-guest  indeed.  He  can  scarcely  let 
Mr.  Dombey's  hand  go,  he  is  so  congratulatory  ; and  h^ 
shakes  the  major's  hand  so  heartily  at  the  same  time,* 
that  his  voice  shakes  too,  in  accord  with  his  arms,  as  it 
comes  sliding  from  between  his  teeth. 

‘‘  The  very  day  is  auspicious,"  says  Mr.  Carker.  The 
brightest  and  most  genial  weather  ! I hope  I am  not  a 
moraeat  late  ? " 

Punctual  to  your  time,  sir,"  says  the  major. 

I am  rejoiced,  I am  sure,”  says  Mr,  Carker.  ''  I was 
afraid  I might  be  a few  seconds  after  the  appointed 
time,  for  I was  delayed  by  a procession  of  waggons  ; and 
I took  the  liberty  of  riding  round  to  Brook -street  ” — this 
to  Mr.  Hombey — ‘‘  to  leave  a few  poor  rarities  of  flowers 
for  Mrs.  Hombey.  A man  in  my  position,  and  so  dis- 
tinguished as  to  be  invited  here,  is  proud  to  offer  some 
homage  in  acknowledgment  of  his  vassalage  : and  as  I 
have  no  doubt  Mrs.  Hombey  is  overwhelmed  with  w'hat 
is  costly  and  magnificent  ; ” with  a strange  glance  at  his 
patron  ; I hope  the  very  poverty  of  my  offering,  may 
find  favour  for  it.” 

‘‘Mrs.  Hombey,  that  is  to  be,”  returns  Mr.  Hombey, 
condescendingly,  “ will  be  very  sensible  of  your  atten- 
tion, Carker,  I am  sure.” 

“ And  if  she  is  to  be  Mrs.  Hombey  this  morning,  sir,” 
says  the  major,  putting  down  his  coffee-cup,  and  looking 
at  his  watch,  “ it's  high  time  we  were  off  ! ” 

Forth,  in  a barouche,  ride  Mr.  Hombey,  Major  Bagstock, 
and  Mr.  Carker,  to  the  church.  Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle 
has  long  risen  from  the  steps,  and  is  in  waiting  with  his 
cocked  hat  in  his  hand.  Mrs.  Miff  curtseys  and  propos- 
es chairs  in  the  vestry.  Mr.  Hombej^  prefers  remaining 
in  the  church.  As  he  looks  up  at  the  organ.  Miss  Tos 
in  the  gallery  shrinks  behind  the  fat  leg  of  a cherubim 
on  a monument,  with  cheeks  like  a young  Wind.  Captain 
Cuttle,  on  the  contrary,  stands  up  and  waves  his  hook, 
in  token  of  welcome  and  encouragement.  Mr.  Toots  in= 
forms  the  Chicken,  behind  his  hand,  that  the  middle 
gentleman,  he  in  the  fawn-coloured  pantaloons,  is  the 
father  of  his  love.  The  Chicken  hoarsely  whispers  Mr. 
Toots  that  he's  as  stiff  a cove  as  ever  he  see,  but  that  it 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


179 


is  witlim  tlie  resources  of  Science  to  double  Mm  up, 
witli  one  blow  in  the  waistcoat. 

Mr.  Sownds  and  Mrs.  Miff  are  eyeing  Mr.  Dombey 
from  a little  distance,  when  the  noise  of  approaching 
wheels  is  heard,  and  Mr.  Sownds  goes  out,  Mrs.  Miff, 
meeting  Mr.  Dombey "s  eye  as  it  is  withdrawn  from  the 
presumptuous  maniac  up-stairs,  who  salutes  him  with 
so  much  urbanity,  drops  a curtsey,  and  informs  him  that 
she  believes  his  good  lady’’  is  come.  Then  there  is  a 
crowding  and  a whispering  at  the  door,  and  the  good 
lady  enters,  with  a haughty  step. 

There  is  no  sign  upon  her  face  of  last  night’s  suffer- 
ing ; there  is  no  tr  in  her  manner,  of  the  woman  on 
the  bended  knees,  2 . osingher  wild  head  upon  the  pillow 
of  the  sleeping  girl.  That  girl,  all  gentle  and  lovely,  is 
at  her  side — a striking  contrast  to  her  own  disdainful 
and  defiant  figure,  standing  there,  composed,  erect,  in- 
scrutable of  will,  resplendent  and  majestic  in  the  zenith 
of  its  charms,  yet  beating  down,  and  treading  on,  the 
admiration  that  it  challenges. 

There  is  a pause  while  Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle  glides 
into  the  vestry  for  the  clergyman  and  clerk.  At  this 
juncture  Mrs.  Skewton  speaks  to  Mr.  Dombey  ; more  dis- 
tinctly and  emphatically  than  her  custom  is,  and  moving, 
at  the  same  time,  close  to  Edith. 

My  dear  Dombey,”  says  the  good  mama,  “ I fear  I 
must  relinquish  darling  Florence  after  all,  and  suffer 
her  to  go  home,  as  she  herself  proposed.  After  my  loss 
of  to-day,  my  dear  Dombey,  I feel  I shall  -not  have  spir- 
its, even  for  her  society.” 

‘‘Had  she  not  better  stay  with  you?”  returns  the 
bridegroom. 

“I  think  not,  my  dear  Dombey.  No,  I think  not.  I 
shall  be  better  alone.  Besides,  my  dearest  Edith  will 
be  her  natural  and  constant  guardian  when  you  return, 
and  I had  better  not  encroach  upon  her  trust,  perhaps. 
She  might  be  jealous.  Eh,  dear  Edith  ? ” 

The  affectionate  mama  presses  her  daughter’s  arm,  as 
she  says  this  : perhaps  entreating  her  attention  earnestly. 

“ To  be  serious,  my  dear  Dombey,”  she  resumes,  “I 
will  relinquish  our  dear  child,  and  not  inflict  my  gloom 
upon  her.  We  have  settled  that,  just  now.  She  fully 
understands,  dear  Dombey.  Edith,  my  dear, — she  fully 
understands.  ” 

Again,  the  good  mother  presses  her  daughter’s  arm. 
Mr.  Dombey  offers  no  additional  remonstrance  ; for  the 
clergyman  and  clerk  appear  ; and  Mrs.  Miff,  and  Mr. 
Sownds  the  beadle,  group  the  party  in  their  proper  places 
at  the  altar  rails. 

“ Who  giveth  this  woman  to  be  married  to  this  man  ? ” 

Cousin  Feenix  does  that.  He  has  come  from  Baden- 


180 


WORKk*  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Baden  on  purpose.  Confound  it/’  Cousin  Feenix  says 
-good-natured  creature,  Cousin  Feenix — ‘‘  when  we  do 
get  a rich  city  fellow  into  the  family,  let  us  show  him 
some  attention  ; let  us  do  something  for  him/’ 

‘'/give  this  woman  to  be  married  to  this  man,”  saith 
Cousin  Feenix  therefore.  Cousin  Feenix,  meaning  to  go 
in  a straight  line,  but  turning  off  sideways  by  reason  of 
his  wilful  legs,  gives  the  wrong  woman  to  be  married  to 
this  man,  at  first — to  wit,  a bridesmaid  of  som.e  condition, 
distantly  connected  with  the  family,  and  ten  years  Mrs. 
Skewton’s  junior — but  Mrs.  Miff,  interposing  her  morti- 
fied bonnet,  dexterously  turns  him  b^ck,  and  runs  him, 
as  on  castors,  full  at  the  "good  lady  whom  Cousin 
Feenix  giveth  to  be  married  to  this  man  accordingly. 

And  will  they  in  the  sight  of  Heaven — ? 

Aye,  that  they  will  : Mr.  Dombey  says  he  will.  And 
what  says  Edith?  Slie  will. 

So,  from  that  day  forward,  for  better  for  worse,  for 
richer  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  to  love  and 
to  cherish,  till  death  do  them  part,  they  plight  their 
troth  to  one  another,  and  are  married. 

In  a firm,  free  hand,  the  bride  subscribes  her  name  in 
the  register,  when  they  adjourn  to  the  vestry.  " There 
an’t  a many  ladies  comes  here,”  Mrs.  Miff  says  with  a 
curtsey — to  look  at  Mrs.  Miff,  at  such  a season,  is  to 
make  her  mortified  bonnet  go  down  with  a dip — ‘ ' writes 
their  names  like  this  good  lady  ! ” Mr.  Sownds  the  bea  * 
die  thinks  it  is  a truly  spanking  signature,  and  worthy 
of  the  writer — this,  however,  between  himself  and  con 
science. 

Florence  signs  too,  but  unapplauded,  for  her  hand 
shakes.  All  the  party  sign  ; Cousin  Feenix  last ; who 
puts  his  noble  name  into  a wrong  place,  and  enrols  hitn- 
self  as  having  been  born,  that  morning. 

The  major  now  salutes  the  bride  right  gallantly,  and 
carries  out  that  branch  of  military  tactics  in  reference  to 
all  the  ladies : notwithstanding  Mrs.  Skewdon’s  being 
extremely  hard  to  kiss,  and  squeaking  shrilly  in  the 
sacred  edifice.  The  example  is  followed  by  Cousin  Fee- 
nix, and  even  by  Mr.  Dombey.  Lastly,  Mr.  Carker, 
with  his  white  teeth  glistening,  approaches  Edith,  more 
as  if  he  meant  to  bite  her  than  to  taste  the  sw^eets  that 
linger  on  her  lips. 

There  is  a glow  upon  her  proud  cheek,  and  a flashing 
in  her  eyes,  that  may  be  meant  to  stay  him  ; but  it  does 
not,  for  he  salutes  her  as  the  rest  have  done,  and  wishes 
her  all  happiness. 

" If  wishes,”  says  he  in  a low  voice,  are  not  superflu- 
ous, applied  to  such  a union.” 

"I  thank  you,  sir,”  she  answers,  with  a curled  lip; 
and  a heaving  bosom. 


IN  A FIRM,  FREE  HAND  THE  BRIDE  SUBSCRIBES  HER  NAME  IN  THE  REGISTER. 

— Dombey  and  Son,  Vol.  Twelve,  page  181. 


m 


WOSKS  OF  CHAKLBS  DICKENS.  . 


But,  does  Edith  feel  still,  as  on  the  night  when  she 
i:new  that  Mr.  Domhey  would  return  to  offer  his  alli- 
ance, that  Carker  knows  her  thoroughly,  and  reads  her 
right,  and  that  she  is  more  degraded  by  his  knowledge 
of  her,  than  by  aught  else?  Is  it  for  this  reason  that 
her  haughtiness  shrinks  beneath  his  smile,  like  snow 
within  the  hand  that  grasps  it  firmly,  and  that  her  im- 
perious glance  droops  in  meeting  his,  and  seeks  the 
ground  ? 

“1  am  proud  to  see,’’  says  Mr.  Carker,  with  a servile 
stooping  of  his  neck,  which  the  revelations  making  by 
his  eyes  and  teeth  proclaim  to  be  a lie,  “ I am  proud  to 
see  that  my  humble  offering  is  graced  by  Mrs.  Dombey’s 
hand,  and  permitted  to  hold  so  favoured  a place  in  so 
joyful  an  occasion.  ” 

Though  she  bends  her  head,  in  answer,  there  is  some- 
thing in  the  momentary  action  of  her  hand,  as  if  she 
would  crush  the  flowers  it  holds,  and  fling  them,  with 
contempt,  upon  the  ground.  But,  she  puts  the  hand 
through  the  arm  of  her  new  husband,  who  has  been 
standing  near,  conversing  with  the  major,  and  is  proud 
again,  and  motionless,  and  silent. 

The  carriages  are  once  more  at  the  church-door.  Mr. 
Dombey,  with  his  bride  upon  his  arm,  conducts  her 
through  the  twenty  families  of  little  w^omen  who  are  on 
the  steps,  and  every  one  of  whom  remembers  the  fashion 
and  the  colour  of  her  every  article  of  dress  from  that 
moment,  and  reproduces  it  on  her  doll,  who  is  for  ever 
being  married.  Cleopatra  and  Cousin  Feenix  entered 
the  same  carriage.  The  major  hands  into  a second  car- 
riage, Florence,  and  the  bridesmaid  who  so  narrowly  es- 
caped being  given  away  by  mistake,  and  then  enters  it 
himself,  and  is  followed  by  Mr.  Carker.  Horses  prance 
and  caper  ; coachmen  and  footmen  shine  in  fluttering 
favours,  flowers,  and  new-made  liveries.  Away  they 
dash  and  rattle  through  the  streets  ; and  as  they  pass 
along,  a thousand  heads  are  turned  to  look  at  them,  and 
a thousand  sober  moralists  revenge  themselves  for  not 
being  married  too,  that  morning,  by  reflecting  that  these 
people  little  think  such  happiness  can’t  last. 

Miss  Tox  emerges  from  behind  the  cherubim’s  leg, 
when  all  is  quiet,  and  comes  slowly  down,  from  the  gal- 
lery. Miss  Tox’s  eyes  are  red,  and  her  pocket-handker- 
chief is  damp.  She  is  wounded,  but  not  exasperated, 
and  she  hopes  they  may  be  happy.  She  quite  admits  to 
herself  the  beauty  of  the  bride,  and  her  own  compara- 
tively feeble  and  faded  attractions  ; but  the  stately  image 
of  Mr.  Dombey  in  his  lilac  waistcoat,  and  his  fawn- 
coloured  pantaloons,  is  present  to  her  mind,  and  Miss 
Tox  weeps  afresh, -behind  her  veil,  on  her  way  home  to 
Princess’s-place.  Captain  Cuttle,  having  joined  in  all  the 


DOMBEY  ANB  SON. 


183 


amens  and  responses,  with  a devout  growl,  feels  much 
improved  by  liis  religious  exercises  ; and  in  a peaceful 
frame  of  mind,  pervades  the  body  of  the  church,  glazed 
hat  in  hand,  and  reads  the  tablet  to  the  memory  of  little 
Paul.  The  gallant  Mr.  Toots,  attended  by  the  faithful 
Chicken,  leaves  the  building  in  torments  of  love.  The 
Chicken  is  as  yet  unable  to  elaborate  a scheme  for  v/in- 
ning  Florence,  but  his  first  idea  has  gained  possession  of 
him,  and  he  thinks  the  doubling  up  of  Mr.  Dombey 
would  be  a move  in  the  right  direction.  Mr.  Dombey's 
servants  come  out  of  their  hiding-places,  and  prepare  to 
rush  to  Brook-street,  vrhen  they  are  delayed  by  symp- 
toms of  indisposition  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Perch,  who 
entreats  a glass  of  water,  and  becomes  alarming ; Mrs. 
Perch  gets  better  soon,  however,  and  is  borne  away ; 
and  Mrs,  Miff,  and  Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle,  sit  upon  the 
steps  to  count  what  they  have  gained  by  the  affair,  and 
talk  it  over,  while  the  sexton  tolls  a funeral. 

Now  the  carriages  arrive  at  the  bride's  residence,  and 
the  players  on  the  bells  begin  to  jingle,  and  the  band 
strikes  up,  and  Mr.  Punch,  that  model  of  connubial 
bliss,  salutes  his  wife.  Now,  the  people  run  and  push, 
and  press  round  in  a gaping  throng,  while  Mr.  Dombey, 
leading  Mrs.  Dombey  by  the  hand,  advances  solemnly 
into  the  Feenix  halls.  Now,  the  rest  of  the  wedding 
party  alight,  and  enter  after  them.  And  why  does  Mr. 
Carker,  passing  through  the  people  to  the  hall-door, 
think  of  the  old  woman  who  called  to  him  in  the  grove 
that  morning  ? Or  why  does  Florence,  as  she  passes, 
think,  w'ith  a tremble,  of  her  childhood,  when  she  was 
lost,  and  of  the  visage  of  good  Mrs.  Brown  ? 

Now,  there  are  more  congratulations  on  this  happiest 
of  days,  and  more  company,  though  not  much ; and  now 
they  leave  the  drawing-room,  and  range  themselves  at 
table  in  the  dark-brown  dining-room,  which  no  confec- 
tioner can  brighten  up,  let  him  garnish  the  exhausted 
negroes  with  as  many  flowers  and  loveknots  as  he  will. 

The  pastry-cook  has  done  his  duty  like  a man,  though, 
and  a rich  breakfast  is  set  forth.  Mr,  and  Mrs.  Chick 
have  joined  the  party,  among  others.  Mrs.  Chick  ad« 
mires  that  Edith  should  be,  by  nature,  such  a perfect 
Dombey ; and  is  affable  and  confidential  to  Mrs.  Skew^- 
ton,  whose  mind  is  relieved  of  a great  load,  and  who 
takes  her  share  of  the  champagne.  The  very  tall  young 
man  who  suffered  from  excitement  early,  is  better  ; but 
a vague  sentiment  of  repentance  lias  seized  upon  him, 
and  he  hates  the  other  very  tall  young  man,  and  wrests 
dishes  from  him  by  violence,  and  takes  a grim  delight 
in  disobliging  the  company.  The  company  are  cool  and 
calm,  and  do  not  outrage  the  black  hatchments  )f  pio 


184 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tures  looking  down  upon  them,  by  any  excess  of  mirth. 
Cousin  Feenix  and  the  major  are  the  gayest  there  ; but 
Mr.  Carker  has  a smile  for  the  whole  table.  He  has  an 
especial  smile  for  the  bride,  who  very,  very,  seldom 
meets  it. 

Cousin  Feenix  rises,  when  the  company  have  break- 
fasted, and  the  servants  have  left  the  room  ; and  won- 
derfully young  he  looks,  with  his  white  wristbands  al- 
most covering  his  hands  (otherwise  rather  bony),  and 
the  bloom  of  the  champagne  in  his  cheeks. 

‘‘  Upon  my  honour,”  says  Cousin  Feenix,  although 
it's  an  unusual  sort  of  thing  in  a private  gentleman's 
house,  I must  beg  leave  to  call  upon  you  to  drink  what 
is  usually  called  a — in  fact  a toast.” 

The  major  very  hoarsely  indicates  his  approval.  Mr. 
Carker,  bending  his  head  forward  over  the  table  in  the 
direction  of  Cousin  Feenix,  smiles  and  nods  a great 
many  times. 

‘"A — in  fact  it's  not  a — " Cousin  Feenix  beginning 
again  thus,  comes  to  a dead  stop. 

Hear,  hear  ! ” says  the  major,  in  a tone  of  conviction. 

Mr.  Carker  softly  claps  his  hands,  and  bending  for- 
ward over  the  table  again,  smiles  and  nods  a great  many 
more  times  than  before,  as  if  he  were  particularly  struck 
by  this  last  observation,  and  desired  personally  to  ex- 
press his  sense  of  the  good  it  has  done  him. 

It  is,”  says  Cousin  Feenix,  ‘‘an  occasion  in  fact, 
when  the  general  usages  of  life  may  be  a little  departed 
from,  without  impropriety ; and  although  I never  was 
an  orator  in  my  life,  and  when  I was  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  and  had  the  honour  of  seconding  the  address, 
was — in  fact,  was  laid  up  for  a fortnight  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  failure — '' 

The  major  and  Mr,  Carker  are  so  much  delighted  by 
this  fragment  of  personal  history,  that  Cousin  Feenix 
laughs,  and  addressing  them  individually,  goes  on  to 
say  : 

And  in  point  of  fact,  when  I was  devilish  ill — still, 
you  know,  I feel  that  a duty  devolves  upon  me.  And 
when  a duty  devolves  upon  an  Englishman,  he  is  bound 
to  get  out  of  it,  in  my  opinion,  in  the  best  w^ay  he  can. 
Well ! our  family  has  had  the  gratification,  to-day,  of 
connecting  itself,  in  the  person  of  my  lovely  and  accom- 
plished relative,  whom  I now  see — in  point  of  fact,  iDres- 
ent— ” 

Here  there  is  general  applause. 

“ Present,”  repeats  Cousin  Feenix,  feeling  that  it  is  a 
neat  point  v.  hich  will  bear  repetition, — ‘‘  v.dth  one  who — 
that  is  to  say,  with  a man,  at  whom  the  finger  of 
scorn  can  never^ — in  fact,  with  my  honourable  friend 
Dombey,  if  he  will  allow  me  to  call  him  so.'' 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


185 


Cousin  Feenix  bows  to  Mr.  Dombey  ; Mr.  Dombey  sol- 
emnly  returns  tbe  bow  ; everybody  is  more  or  less  grati- 
fied and  affected  by  this  extraordinary,  and  perhaps  un- 
precedented, appeal  to  the  feelings. 

‘‘  I have  not,'"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  enjoyed  those  op- 
portunities which  I could  have  desired,  of  cultivating 
the  acquaintance  of  my  friend  Dombey,  and  studying 
those  qualities  which  do  equal  honour  to  his  head,  and, 
in  point  of  fact,  to  his  heart  ; for  it  has  been  my  misfor- 
tune to  be,  as  we  used  to  say  in  my  time  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  when  it  was  not  the  custom  to  allude  to  the 
Lords,  and  when  the  order  of  parliamentary  proceedings 
was  perhaps  better  observed  than  it  is  now—  to  be  in — in 
point  of  fact,”  says  Cousin  Feenix,  cherishing  his  joke, 
with  great  sljmess,  and  finally  bringing  it  out  with  a jerk, 

‘ in  another  place  V ” 

The  major  falls  into  convulsions,  and  is  recovered  with 
difficulty. 

But  I know  sufficient  of  my  friend  Dombey,”  resumes 
Cousin  Feenix  in  a graver  tone,  as  if  he  had  suddenly 
become  a sadder  and  a wiser  man,  to  know  that  he  is,in 
point  of  fact,  what  may  be  emphatically  called  a — a mer- 
chant—a British  merchant — and  a — and  a man.  And  al- 
though I have  been  resident  abroad  for  some  years  (it 
would  give  me  great  pleasure  to  receive  my  friend  Dom- 
bey, and  everybody  here,  at  Baden-Baden,  and  to  have 
an  opportunity  of  making  'em  known  to  the  Grand  Duke), 
still  I know  enough,  I flatter  myself,  of  my  lovely  and 
accomplished  relative,  to  know  that  she  possesses  every 
requisite  to  make  a man  happy,  and  that  her  marriage 
with  my  friend  Dombey  is  one  of  inclination  and  affec- 
tion on  both  sides.” 

Many  smiles  and  nods  from  Mr.  Carker. 

Therefore,”  says  Cousin  Feenix,  I congratulate  the 
family  of  which  I am  a member,  on  the  acquisition  of 
2iy  friend  Dombey.  I congratulate  my  friend  Dombey 
on  his  union  with  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative, 
v/ho  possesses  every  requisite  to  make  a man  happy  ; and 
I take  the  liberty  of  calling  on  you  all,  in  point  of  fact, 
to  congratulate  both  my  friend  Dombey  and  my  lovely 
©nd  accomplished  relative,  on  the  present  occasion.” 

The  speech  of  Cousin  Feenix  is  received  with  great  ap- 
plause, and  Mr.  Dombey  returns  thanks  on  behalf  of 
himself  and  Mrs.  Dombey.  J.  B.  shortly  afterwards  pro- 
poses Mrs.  Skewton.  The  breakfast  languishes  when 
Hiat  is  done,  the  violated  hatchments  are  avenged,  and 
Edith  rises  to  assume  her  travelling  dress. 

All  the  servants,  in  the  meantime,  have  been  break- 
fasting below.  Champagne  has  grown  too  common 
among  them  to  be  mentioned,  and  roast  fowls,  raised 
pies,  and  lobster  salad,  have  become  mere  drugs.  The 


186 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


very  tall  yonng  man  has  recovered  his  spirits,  and 
again  alludes  to  the  exciseman.  His  comrade's  eye  be- 
gins to  emulate  his  own,  and  he,  too,  stares  at  objects 
without  taking  cognizance  thereof.  There  is  a general 
redness  in  the  faces  of  the  ladies ; in  the  face  of  Mrs. 
Perch  particularly,  who  is  joyous  and  beaming,  and 
lifted  so  far  above  the  cares  of  life,  that  if  she  were 
asked  just  now  to  direct  a wayfarer  to  Ball's  Pond, 
where  her  own  cares  lodge,  she  would  have  some  dif- 
ficulty in  recalling  the  way.  Mr.  Towlinson  has  pro- 
posed the  happy  pair ; to  which  the  silver-headed  but- 
ler responded  neatly,  and  with  emotion ; for  he  half 
begins  to  think  he  is  an  old  retainer  of  the  family, 
and  that  he  is  bound  to  be  affected  by  these  changes. 
The  whole  party,  and  especially  the  ladies,  are  very 
frolicsome.  Mr.  Dombey's  cook,  who  generally  takes 
the  lead  in  society,  has  said,  it  is  impossible  to  settle 
down  after  this,  and  why  not  go,  in  a party,  to  the  play  ? 
Everybody  (Mrs.  Perch  included)  has  agreed  to  this  ; 
even  the  native  who  is  tigerish  in  his  drink,  and  who 
alarms  the  ladies  (Mrs.  Perch  particularly)  by  the  rolling 
of  his  eyes.  One  of  the  very  tall  young  men  has  even 
(proposed  a ball  after  the  play,  and  it  presents  itself  to 
210  one  (Mrs.  Perch  included)  in  the  light  of  an  impossi- 
bility. Words  have  arisen  between  the  housemaid  and 
Hr.  Towlinson  ; she,  on  the  authority  of  an  old  saw, 
asserting  marriages  to  be  made  in  heaven  : he,  affecting 
to  trace  the  manufacture  elsewhere  ; he,  supposing  that 
she  says  so,  because  she  thinks  of  being  married  her  own 
self ; she,  saying,  Lord  forbid,  at  any  rate,  that  she 
should  ever  marry  him.  To  calm  these  flying  taunts, 
the  silver-headed  butler  rises  to  propose  the  health  of 
Mr.  Towlinson,  whom  to  kiiov^^  is  to  esteem,  and  to  es- 
teem is  to  wish  well  settled  in  life  with  the  object  of 
his  choice,  wherever  (here  the  silver-headed  butler  eyes 
the  housemaid)  she  may  be.  Mr.  Towlinson  returns 
iJhanks  in  a speech  replete  with  feeling,  of  which  the 
peroration  turns  on  foreigners,  regarding  whom  he  says 
they  may  find  favour,  sometimes  with  weak  and  incon- 
sistent intellects  that  can  be  led  away  by  hair,  but  all  he 
hopes,  is,  he  may  npver  hear  of  no  foreigner  never  bon- 
ing nothing  out  oi  no  travelling  chariot.  The  eye  of 
Mr.  Towlinson  is  so  severe  and  so  expressive  here,  that 
the  housemaid  is  turning  hysterical,  when  she  and  all 
the  rest  roused  by  the  intelligence  that  tlie  Bride  is  go- 
ing away,  hurry  up-stairs  to  vritness  her  departure. 

The  chariot  is  at  the  door  ; the  Bride  is  descending  to 
the  hall,  where  Mr.  Dombey  waits  for  her.  Florence  is 
ready  on  the  staircase  to  depart  too  ; and  Miss  Nipper, 
who  has  held  a middle  state  between  the  parlour  and 
the  kitchen,  is  prepared  to  accompany  her.  As  Edith 


DOMBEl  AND  SON. 


187 


appears,  Florence  hastens  towards  her,  to  bid  her  fare« 
well. 

Is  Edith  cold,  that  she  should  tremble  ! Is  there  any- 
thing unnatural  or  unwholesome  in  the  touch  of  Flor- 
ence, that  the  beautiful  form  recedes  and  contracts,  as  if 
f.t  could  not  bear  it ! Is  there  so  much  hurry  in  this 
going  away,  that  Edith,  with  a wave  of  her  hand,  sweeps 
on  and  is  gone  1 

Mrs.  Skewton,  overpowered  by  her  feelings  as  a 
mother,  sinks  on  her  scfa  in  the  Cleopatra  attitude, 
when  the  clatter  of  the  chariot  wheels  is  lost,  and  sheds 
several  tears.  The  major,  coming  with  "ihe  rest  of  the 
company  from  table,  endeavours  to  comfort  her  ; but  she 
will  not  be  comforted  on  any  terms,  and  so  the  maior 
takes  his  leave.  Cousin  Feenix  takes  his  leave,  and  Mr. 
Carker  takes  his  leave.  The  guests  all  go  away.  CleOr 
patra,  left  alone,  feels  a little  giddy  from  her  strong 
emotion,  and  falls  asleep. 

Giddiness  prevails  below  stairs  too.  The  very  tall 
young  man  whose  excitement  came  on  so  soon,  appears 
to  have  his  head  glued  to  the  table  in  the  pantry,  and 
cannot  be  detached  from  it.  A violent  revulsion  has 
taken  place  in  the  spirits  of  Mrs.  Perch,  who  is  low  oi^ 
account  of  Mr.  Perch  ; and  tells  cook  that  she  fears  he 
is  not  so  much  attached  to  his  home,  as  he  used  to  be, 
when  they  were  only  nine  in  family.  Mr.  Towlinson 
has  a singing  in  his  ears  and  a large  wheel  going  round 
and  round  inside  his  head.  The  housemaid  wishes  it 
wasn’t  wicked  to  wish  that  one  was  dead. 

There  is  a general  delusion  likewise,  in  these  lower 
regions,  on  the  subject  of  time  ; everybody  conceiving 
that  it  ought  to  be,  at  the  earliest,  ten  o’clock  at  night, 
whereas  it  is  not  yet  three  in  the  afternoon.  A shadowy 
idea  of  wickedness  committed,  haunts  every  individual 
in  the  party  ; and  each  one  secretly  thinks  the  other  a 
companion  in  guilt,  whom  it  would  be  agreeable  to 
avoid.  No  man  or  woman  has  the  hardihood  to  hint  at 
the  projected  visit  to  the  play.  Any  one  reviving  the 
notion  of  the  ball,  would  be  scouted  as  a malignant 
idiot. 

Mrs.  Skewton  sleeps  up-stairs,  two  hours  afterwards, 
and  naps  are  not  yet  over  in  the  kitchen.  The  hatchments 
in  the  dining-room  look  down  on  crumbs,  dirty  plates, 
spillings  of  wine,  half-thawed  ice,  stale  discoloured  heeh 
taps,  scraps  of  lobster,  drumsticks  of  fowls,  and  pensive 
jellies,  gradually  resolving  themselves  into  a lukewarm 
gummy  soup.  The  marriage  is,  by  this  time,  almost  as 
denuded  of  its  show  and  garnish  as  the  breakfast.  Mr. 
Dombey’s  servants  moralise  so  much  about  it,  and  are  so 
repentant  over  their  early  tea,  at  home,  that  by  eight 
o’clock  or  so,  they  settle  down  into  confirmed  serious- 


188 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


ness  ; and  Mr.  Perch,  arriving  at  that  time  from  the  city^ 
fresh  and  jocular,  with  a white  waistcoat  and  a comic 
song,  ready  to  spend  the  evening,  and  prepared  for  any 
amount  of  dissipation,  is  amazed  to  find  himself  coldly 
received,  and  Mrs.  Perch  hut  poorly,  and  to  have  the 
pleasing  duty  of  escorting  that  lady  home  by  the  next 
omnibus. 

Night  closes  in.  Florence  having  rambled  through 
the  handsome  house,  from  room  to  room,  seeks  her  own 
chamber,  where  the  care  of  Edith  has  surrounded  her 
with  luxuries  and  comforts  ; and  divesting  herself  of 
her  handsome  dress,  puts  on  her  old  simple  mourning 
for  dear  Paul,  and  sits  down  to  read,  with  Diogenes 
winking  and  blinking  on  the  ground  beside  her.  But 
Florence  cannot  read  to-night.  The  house  seems  strange 
and  new,  and  there  are  loud  echoes  in  it.  There  is  a 
shadow  on  her  heart : she  knows  not  why  or  what : but 
it  is  heavy.  Florence  shuts  her  book,  and  gruff  Dioge- 
nes, who  takes  that  for  a signal,  puts  his  paws  upon 
h^n*  lap,  and  rubs  his  ears  against  her  caressing  hands. 
But  Florence  cannot  see  him  plainly,  in  a little  time,  for 
there  is  a mist  between  her  eyes  and  him,  and  her  dead 
brother  and  dead  mother  shine  in  it  like  angels.  Wal- 
ter, too,  poor  wandering  ship- wrecked  boy,  oh,  where  is 
he  ! 

The  major  don’t  know  ; that’s  for  certain  ; and  don’t 
care.  The  major,  having  choked  and  slumbered,  all 
the  afternoon,  has  taken  a late  dinner  at  his  club,  and 
now  sits  over  his  pint  of  wine,  driving  a modest  young 
man,  with  a fresh-coloured  face,  at  the  next  table  (who 
would  give  a handsome  sum  to  be  able  to  rise  and  go 
away,  but  cannot  do  it)  to  the  verge  of  madness,  by 
anecdotes  of  Bagstock,  sir,  at  Dombey’s  wedding,  and 
old  Joe’s  devilish  gentlemanly  friend.  Lord  Feenix= 
While  Cousin  Feenix,  who  ought  to  be  at  Long’s,  and 
in  bed,  finds  himself,  instead,  at  a gaming-table,  where 
his  wilful  legs  have  taken  him,  perhaps,  in  his  own 
despite. 

Night,  like  a giant,  fills  the  church,  from  pavement  to 
roof,  and  holds  dominion  through  the  silent  hours.  Pale 
dawn  again  comes  peeping  through . the  windows  ; and, 
giving  place  to  day,  sees  night  withdraw  into  the  vaults, 
and  follows  it,  and  drives  it  out,  and  hides  among  the 
dead.  The  timid  mice  again  cower  close  togetherj  when 
the  ^reat  door  clashes,  and  Mr.  Sownds  and  Mrs.  Miff, 
treaaing  the  circle  of  their  daily  lives,  unbroken  as  a 
marriage  ring,  come  in.  Again  the  cocked  hat  and  the 
mortified  bonnet  stand  in  the  back  ground  at  the  mar- 
riage hour  : and  again  this  man  taketh  this  woman,  and 
this  woman  taketh  this  man,  on  the  solemn  terms  : 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


189 


To  have  and  to  hold,  from  this  day  forward,  fo? 
better  for  worse,  for  richer  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in 
health,  to  love  and  to  cherish,  until  death  do  them  part.” 

The  very  words  that  Mr.  Carker  rides  into  town  re- 
peating, with  his  mouth  stretched  to  the  utmost,  as  he 
picks  his  dainty  way. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

The  Wooden  Midshipman  goes  to  Pieces, 

Honest  Captain  Cuttle,  as  the  weeks  flew  over  him  in 
his  fortified  retreat,  by  no  means  abated  any  of  his  pru- 
dent provisions  against  surprise,  because  of  the  nonap- 
pearance of  the  enemy.  The  captain  argued  that  his 
present  security  was  too  profound  and  wonderful  to  en- 
dure much  longer  ; he  knew  that  when  the  wind  stood 
in  a fair  quarter,  the  weathercock  was  seldom  nailed 
there  ; and  he  was  too  well  acquainted  with  the  deter- 
mined and  dauntless  character  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  to 
doubt  that  that  heroic  woman  had  devoted  herself  to  the 
task  of  his  discovery  and  capture.  Trembling  beneath 
the  weight  pf  these  reasons.  Captain  Cuttle  lived  a very 
close  and  retired  life  ; seldom  stirring  abroad  until  after 
dark ; venturing  even  then  only  into  the  obscurest 
streets  ; never  going  forth  at  all  on  Sundays ; and 
both  within  and  without  the  walls  of  his  retreat,  avoid- 
ing bonnets,  as  if  they  were  worn  by  raging  lions. 

The  captain  never  dreamed  that  in  the  event  of  his 
being  pounced  upon  by  Mrs.  MacStinger,  in  his  walks,  it 
would  be  possible  to  offer  resistance.  He  felt  that  it 
could  not  be  done.  He  saw  himself,  in  his  mind’s  eye, 
put  meekly  in  a hackney  coach,  and  carried  off  to  his  old 
lodgings.  He  foresaw  that,  once  immured  there,  he  was 
a lost  man  : his  hat  gone  ; Mrs.  MacStinger  watchful  of 
him  day  and  night ; reproaches  heaped  upon  his  head, 
before  the  infant  family  ; himself  the  guilty  object  of 
suspicion  and  distrust : an  ogre  in  the  children’s  eyes, 
and  in  their  mother’s  a detected  traitor. 

A violent  perspiration,  and  a lowness  of  spirits  always 
came  over  the  captain  as  this  gloomy  picture  presented 
itself  to  his  imagination.  It  generally  did  so  previous  to 
his  stealing  out  of  doors  at  night  for  air  and  exercise. 
Sensible  of  the  risk  he  ran,  the  captain  took  leave  of 
Rob,  at  those  times  with  the  solemnity  which  became  a 
man  who  might  never  return  ; exhorting  him  in  the 
event-  of  his  (the  captain’s)  being  lost  sight  of,  for  a time, 
to  tread  in  the  paths  of  virtue,  and  keep  the  brazen  in- 
struments well  polished. 


190 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


But  not  to  throw  away  a chance,  and  to  secure  to  him- 
self a means,  in  case  of  the  worst,  of  holding  communi- 
cation with  the  external  world  ; Captain  Cuttle  soon 
conceived  the  happy  idea  of  teaching  Roh  the  Grinder 
some  secret  signal,  by  which  that  adherent  might  make 
his  presence  and  fidelity  known  to  his  commander,  in 
the  hour  of  adversity.  After  much  cogitation,  the  cap- 
tain decided  in  favour  of  instructing  him  to  whistle  the 
marine  melody,  Oh  cheerily,  cheerily  ! ’’  and  Rob  the 
Grinder  attaining  a point  as  near  perfection  in  that  ac- 
complishment as  a landsman  could  hope  to  reach,  the 
captain  impressed  these  mysterious  instructions  on  his 
mind  : 

Now,  my  lad,  stand  by  ! If  ever  Fm  took — ” 

Took,  captain  ! ” interposed  Rob,  with  his  round  eyes 
wide  open. 

'‘Ah  !"'  said  Captain  Cuttle  darkly,  “if  ever  I goes 
away,  meaning  to  come  back  to  supper,  and  don’t  come 
within  hail  again  twenty- four  hours  artermy  loss,  go  you 
to  Brig-place  and  whistle  that  ’ere  tune  near  my  old 
moorings — not  as  if  you  was  a meaning  of  it,  you  under- 
stand, but  as  if  you’d  drifted  there,  promiscuous.  If  I 
answer  in  that  tune,  you  sheer  off,  my  lad,  and  come 
back  four-and-twenty  hours  arter wards  ; if  I answer  in 
another  tune,  do  you  stand  off  and  on,  and  wait  till  I 
throw  out  further  signals.  Do  you  understand  them  or- 
ders, now?” 

“ What  am  I to  stand  off  and  on  of.  Captain  ? ” in. 
quired  Rob.  “The  horse-road  ?” 

“ Here’s  a smart  lad  for  you  ! ” cried  the  captain,  eye 
ing  him  sternly,  “ as  don’t  know  his  own  native  alpha- 
bet ! Go  away  a bit  and  come  back  again  alternate — d’ye 
understand  that?” 

“Yes,  captain,”  said  Rob. 

^ Very  good,  my  lad,  then,”  said  the  captain,  relent- 
ing. “Doit!” 

That  he  might  do  it  the  better.  Captain  Cuttle  some- 
times condescended,  of  an  evening,  after  the  shop  was 
shut,  to  rehearse  the  scene  : retiring  into  the  parlour  for 
the  purpose,  as  into  the  lodgings  of  a supposititious  Mac- 
Stinger,  and  carefully  observing  the  behaviour  of  his 
ally,  from  the  hole  of  espial  he  had  cut  in  the  wall.  Rob 
the  Grinder  discharged  himself  of  his  duty  with  so  much 
exactness  and  judgment,  when  thus  put  to  the  proof, 
that  the  captain  presented  him,  at  divers  times,  with 
seven  sixpences,  in  token  of  satisfaction  ; and  gradually 
felt  stealing  over  his  spirit  the  resignation  of  a man  who 
had  made  provision  for  the  worst,  and  taken  every  rea- 
sonable precaution  against  an  unrelenting  fate. 

Nevertheless,  the  captain  did  not  tempt  ill-fortune,  by 
Voing  a whit  more  venturesome  than  before.  Though 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


191 


he  considerea  it  a point  of  good  breeding  in  himself,  as  a 
general  friend  of  the  family,  to  attend  Mr.  Dombey's  wed- 
ding(of  which  he  had  heard  from  Mr.  Perch),  and  to  show 
that  gentleman  a pleasant  and  approving  countenance 
from  the  gallery,  he  had  repaired  to  the  church  in  a hack- 
ney cabriolet  with  both  windows  up  ; and  might  have 
scrupled  even  to  make  that  venture,  in  his  dread  of  Mrs. 
MacStinger,  but  that  the  ladj^^s  attendance  on  the  ministry 
of  the  Eeverend  Melchisedech  rendered  it  peculiarly  un- 
likely that  she  would  be  found  in  communion  with  the 
Establishment. 

The  captain  got  safe  home  again,  and  fell  into  the  or- 
dinary routine  of  his  new  life,  without  encountering  any 
more  direct  alarm  from  the  enemy,  than  was  suggested 
to  him  by  the  daily  bonnets  in  the  street.  But,  other  sub- 
jects began  to  lie  heavier  on  the  captaiids  mind.  Wal- 
ter’s ship  was  still  unheard  of.  No  news  came  of  old  Sol 
Gills.  Florence  did  not  even  know  of  the  old  man’s  dis- 
appearance, and  Captain  Cuttle  had  not  the  heart  to  tell 
her.  Indeed  the  captain,  as  his  own  hopes  of  the  gen- 
erous, handsome,  gallant-hearted  youth,  whom  he  had 
loved,  according  to  his  rough  manner,  from  a child,  be- 
gan to  fade,  and  fade  more  and  more  from  day  to  day, 
shrunk  with  instinctive  pain  from  the  thought  of  ex- 
changing a word  with  lilorence.  If  he  had  had  good 
news  to  carry  to  her,  the  honest  captain  would  have 
braved  the  newly  decorated  house  and  splendid  furni- 
ture— though  these,  connected  with  the  lady  he  had  seen 
at  church,  were  awful  to  him — and  made  his  way  into 
her  presence.  With  a dark  horizon  gathering  around 
their  common  hopes,  however,  which  darkened  every 
hour,  the  captain  alm-ost  felt  as  if  he  were  a new  misfor- 
tune and  affliction  to  her  ; and  was  scarcely  less  afraid 
of  a visit  from  Florence,  than  from  Mrs.  MacStinger 
herself. 

It  was  a chill  dark  autumn  evening,  and  Captain  Cut- 
tie  had  ordered  a fire  to  be  kindled  in  the  little  back 
parlour,  now  more  than  ever  like  the  cabin  of  a ship. 
The  rain  fell  fast,  and  the  wind  blew  hard  ; and  straying 
out  on  the  house-  top  by  that  stormy  bed-room  of  his  old 
friend,  to  take  an  observation  of  the  weather,  the  cap- 
tain’s heart  died  within  him,  when  he  saw  how'  wild  and 
desolate  it  was.  Not  that  he  associated  the  weather  of 
that  time  with  poor  Walter’s  destiny,  or  doubted  that  if 
Providence  had  doomed  him  to  be  lost  and  shipwrecked, 
it  was  over,  long  ago  ; but  that  beneath  an  outward  in- 
fluence quite  distinct  from  the  subject-matter  of  his 
thoughts,  the  captain’s  spirits  sank,  and  his  hopes  turned 
pale,  as  those  of  vriser  men  have  often  done  before  him, 
and  will  often  do  again. 

Captain  Cuttle,  addressing  his  face  to  the  sharp  wind 


192 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


and  slanting  rain,  looked  np  at  the  heavy  scud  that  was 
hying  fast  over  the  wilderness  of  house-tops,  and  looked 
for  something  cheery  there,  in  vain.  The  prospect  near 
at  hand  was  no  better.  In  sundry  tea-chests,  and  other 
rough  boxes  at  his  feet,  the  pigeons  of  Rob  the  Grinder 
ware  cooing  like  so  many  dismal  breezes  getting  up.  A 
crazy  weathercock  of  a midshipman  with  a telescope  at 
his  eye,  once  visible  from  the  street,  but  long  bricked 
out,  creaked  and  complained  upon  his  rusty  pivot  as  the 
shrill  blast  spun  him  round  and  round,  and  sported  with 
him  cruelly.  Upon  the  captain’s  coarse  blue  vest  the 
cold  rain-drops  darted  like  steel  beads  ; and  he  could 
hardly  maintain  himself  aslant  against  the  stiff  nor’w^es- 
ter  that  came  pressing  against  him,  importunate  to  top- 
ple him  over  the  parapet,  and  throw  him  on  the  pave- 
ment below.  If  there  were  any  Hope  alive  that  evening, 
the  captain  thought,  as  he  held  his  hat  on,  it  certainly 
kept  house,  and  wasn’t  out  of  doors  ; so  the  captain, 
shaking  his  head  in  a despondent  manner,  went  in  to 
look  for  it. 

Captain  Cuttle  descended  slowly  to  the  little  back  par- 
lour, and,  seated  in  his  accustomed  chair,  looked  for  it 
in  the  fire ; but  it  was  not  there,  though  the  fire  was 
bright.  He  took  out  his  tobacco-box  and  pipe,  and  com- 
posing himself  to  smoke,  looked  for  it  in  the  red  glow 
from  the  bowl,  and  in  the  wreaths  of  vapour  that  curled 
upward  from  his  lips  *,  but  there  was  not  so  much  as  an 
atom  of  the  rust  of  Hope’s  anchor  in  either.  He  tried  a 
glass  of  grog  ; but  melancholy  truth  was  at  the  bottom 
of  that  well,  and  he  couldn’t  finish  it.  He  made  a turn 
or  two  in  the  shop,  and  looked  for  Hope  among  the  in- 
struments ; but  they  obstinately  worked  out  reckonings 
for  the  missing  ship,  in  spite  of  any  opposition  he  could 
offer,  that  ended  at  the  bottom  of  the  lone  sea. 

The  wind  still  rushing,  and  the  rain  still  pattering, 
against  the  closed  shutters,  the  captain  brought  to  before 
the  wooden  Midshipman  upon  the  counter,  and  thought, 
as  he  dried  the  little  officer’s  uniform  with  his  sleeve, 
how  m^any  years  the  Midshipman  had  seen,  during  which 
few  changes — hardly  any — had  transpired  among  his 
ship’s  company  ; how  the  changes  had  come  all  together 
one  day,  as  it  might  be  ; and  of  what  a sweeping  kind 
they  were.  Here  was  the  little  society  of  the  bexk  par- 
lour broken  up,  and  scattered  far  and  wide.  Here  was 
no  audience  for  lovely  Peg,  even  if  there  had  been  any- 
body to  sing  it,  which  there  was  not ; for  the  captain 
was  as  morally  certain  that  nobody  but  he  could  execute 
that  ballad,  as  he  was  that  he  had  not  the  spirit,  under 
existing  circumstances,  to  attempt  it.  There  was  no 
bright  face  of  Wal’r”  in  the  house  ; — here  the  captain 
transferred  his  sleeve  for  a moment  from  the  midship- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


193 


man's  uniform  to  his  own  cheek  ; — the  familiar  wig  and 
buttons  of  Sol  Gills  were  a vision  of  the  past ; Richard 
Whittington  was  knocked  on  the  head  ; and  every  plan 
and  project,  in  connexion  with  the  Midshipman,  lay 
drifting,  without  mast  or  rudder,  on  the  waste  of  waters. 

As  the  captain,  with  a dejected  face,  stood  revolving 
these  thoughts,  and  polishing  the  Midshipman,  partly 
in  the  tenderness  of  old  acquaintance,  and  partly  in  the 
absence  of  his  mind,  a knocking  at  the  shop-door  com- 
municated a frightful  start  to  the  frame  of  Rob  the  Grin- 
der seated  on  the  counter,  whose  large  eyes  had  been  in- 
tently fixed  on  the  captain's  face,  and  who  had  been 
debating  within  himself,  for  the  five  hundreth  time, 
whether  the  captain  could  have  done  a murder,  that  he 
had  such  an  evil  conscience,  and  was  always  running 
away. 

“ What's  that  ! " said  Captain  Cuttle,  softly. 

Somebody's  knuckles,  captain,"  answered  Rob  the 
Grinder. 

The  captain,  with  an  abashed  and  guilty  air,  imme- 
diately sneaked  on  tiptoe  to  the  little  parlour  and  locked 
himself  in.  Rob,  opening  the  door,  would  have  parleyed 
with  the  visitor  on  the  threshold  if  the  visitor  had  come 
in  female  guise  ; but  the  figure  being  of  the  male  sex, 
and  Rob's  orders  only  applying  to  women,  Rob  held  the 
door  open  anrf  allowed  it  to  enter  : which  it  did  very 
quickly,  glad  to  get  out  of  the  driving  rain. 

‘‘  A job  for  Burgess  and  Co.  at  any  rate,"  said  the  vis- 
itor looking  over  his  shoulder  compassionately  at  his  own 
legs,  which  were  very  wet  and  covered  with  splashes. 
“Oh,  how-de-do,  Mr.  Gills?" 

The  salutation  was  addressed  to  the  captain,  now 
emerging  from  the  back  parlour  with  a most  transparent 
and  utterly  futile  affectation  of  coming  out  by  accident. 

“Thankee,"  the  gentleman  went  on  to  say  in  the 
same  breath  ; “ I'm  very  well  indeed,  myself,  I’m  much 
obliged  to  you.  My  name  is  Toots, — Mister  Toots." 

The  captain  remembered  to  have  seen  this  young  gen- 
tleman at  the  wedding,  and  made  him  a bow.  Mr.  Toots 
replied  with  a chuckle  ; and  being  embarrassed,  as  he 
generally  was,  breathed  hard,  shook  hands  with  the  cap- 
tain for  a long  time,  and  then  falling  on  Rob  the  Grin- 
der, in  the  absence  of  any  other  resource,  shook  hands 
with  him  in  a most  affectionate  and  cordial  manner. 

“I  say  ! I should  like  to  speak  a word  to  you,  Mr. 
Gills,  if  you  please,"  said  Toots  at  length,  with  surpris- 
ing presence  of  mind.  “I  say  ! Miss  D.  O.  M.  yois, 
know  ! " 

The  captain,  with  responsive  gravity  and  mystery,  im^ 
mediately  waved  his  hook  towards  the  little  parlour^ 
whither  Mr.  Toots  followed  him. 

Yol.  r-l 


194 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICK:^NS. 


Oil  I I beg  your  pardon  thongli,”  said  Mr.  Toots, 
looking  up  at  the  captain^’s  face,  as  lie  sat  down  in  a 
chair  by  the  fire,  which  the  captain  placed  for  him 

you  don't  happen  to  know  the  Chicken  at  all  ; do  you 
Mr.  Gills 

‘‘  The  Chicken  ? said  the  captain. 

"^The  Game  Chicken,'^  said  Mr.  Toots. 

The  captain  shaking  his  head,  Mr.  Toots  explained 
that  the  man  alluded  to  v^as  the  celebrated  public  char- 
acter who  had  covered  himself  and  his  country  with 
glory  in  his  contest  with  the  Nobby  Shropshire  One  ; but 
this  piece  of  information  did  not  appear  to  enlighten  the 
captain  very  much. 

Because  he’s  outside : that’s  all,”  said  Mr.  Toots. 

But  it’s  of  no  consequence  ; he  won’t  get  very  wet,^ 
perhaps.” 

I can  pass  the  word  for  him  in  a moment,”  said  the 
captain. 

Well,  if  you  would  have  the  goodness  to  let  him  sit 
in  the. shop  with  your  young  man,”  chuckled  Mr.  Toots, 

I should  be  glad  ; because  you  know  he  is  easily  of- 
fended, and  the  damp’s  rather  bad  for  his  stamina.  /’M 
call  him  in,  Mr.  Gills.” 

‘‘  With  that,  Mr.  Toots,  repairing  to  the  shop-door, 
sent  a peculiar  whistle  into  the  night,  which  produced  a 
stoical  gentleman  in  a shaggy  white  great-coat  and  a 
flat-brimmed  hat,  with  very  short  hair,  a broken  nose, 
and  a considerable  tract  of  bare  and  sterile  country  behind 
eaxh  ear. 

“ Sit  down,  Chicken,”  said  Mr.  Toots. 

The  compliant  Chicken  spat  out  some  small  pieces  of 
straw  on  which  he  was  regaling  himself,  and  took  in  a 
fresh  supply  from  a reserve  he  carried  in  his  hand. 

“ There  an’t  no  drain  of  nothing  short  handy,  is 
there  ? ” said  the  Chicken,  generally.  “ This  here  sluic- 
ing night  is  hard  lines  to  a man  as  lives  on  his  con- 
dition. ” 

Captain  Cuttle  proffered  a glass  of  rum,  which  the 
Chicken,  throwing  back  his  head,  emptied  into  himself, 
as  into  a cask,  after  proposing  the  brief  sentiment, 
“ Towards  us  ! ” Mr.  Toots  and  the  captain  returning 
then  to  the  parlour,  and  taking  their  seats  before  the 
fire,  Mr.  Toots  began  ; 

“Mr.  Gills—” 

“ Awast ! ” said  the  captain.  “ My  name’s  Cuttle.” 

Mr.  Toots  looked  greatly  disconcerted,  while  the  cap- 
tain proceeded  gravely  : 

“ Cap’en  Cuttle  is  my  name,  and  England  is  my  nation, 
this  here  is  my  dwelling-place,  and  blessed  be  creation 
—Job,”  said  the  captain,  as  an  index  to  his  authority. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


195 


‘^Oh  ! I couldn’t  see  Mr.  Gills,  could  I ? ” said  Mr. 
Toots;  because — ” 

''If you  could  see  Sol  Gills,  young  gen’l’m’n,  said 
the  captain,  impressively,  and  laying  his  heavy  hand  op 
Mr.  Toots’s  knee,  "old  Sol,  mind  you — with  your  own 
eyes— as  you  sit  there — you’d  be  wel comer  to  me,  than  a 
wind  astarn,  to  a ship  becalmed.  But  you  can’t  see  Sol 
Gills.  And  why  can’t  you  see  Sol  Gills  ? ” said  the  capo 
tain,  apprised  by  the  face  of  Mr.  Toots  that  he  was  mako 
ing  a profound  impression  on  that  gentleman’s  mind, 
" Because  he’s  inwisible.  ” 

Mr.  Toots  in  his  agitation  was  going  to  reply  that  it 
was  of  no  consequence  at  all.  But  he  corrected  himself, 
and  said,  "Lor  bless  me  !” 

" That  there  man,”  said  the  captain,  " has  left  me  in 
charge  here  by  a piece  of  writing,  but  though  he  was 
a’most  as  good  as  my  sworn  brother,  I know  no  more 
where  he’s  gone,  or  why  he’s  gone — if  so  be  to  seek  his 
nevy,  or  if  so  be  along  of  being  not  quite  settled  in  his 
mind— than  you  do.  One  morning  at  daybreak,  he  went 
over  the  side,”  said  the  captain,  " without  a splash, 
without  a ripple.  I have  looked  for  that  man  high  and 
low,  and  never  set  eyes,  nor  ears,  nor  nothing  else,  upon 
him,  from  that  hour.  ” 

" But,  good  gracious.  Miss  Dombey  don’t  know — ” Mr. 
Toots  began. 

" Why,  I ask  you,  as  a feeling  heart,”  said  the  cap- 
tain, dropping  his  voice,  " why  should  she  know?  Why 
should  she  be  made  to  know,  until  such  time  as  there 
warn’t  any  help  for  it  ? She  took  to  old  Sol  Gills,  did 
that  sweet  creetur,  with  a kindness,  with  a affability, 
with  a — what’s  the  good  of  saying  so?  you  know  her. ” 

" I should  hope  so,”  chuckled  Mr.  Toots,  with  a con- 
scious blush  that  suffused  his  whole  countenance. 

" And  you  come  here  from  her?”  said  the  captain. 

" I should  think  so,”  chuckled  Mr.  Toots. 

" Then  all  I need  observe  is,”  said  the  captain,  " that 
you  know  a angel,  and  are  chartered  hy  a angel.” 

Mr.  Tools  instantly  seized  the  captain’s  liand,  and  re- 
quested the  favour  of  his  friendship. 

" Upon  my  word  and  honour,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  earnestly, 
" I should  be  very  much  obliged  to  you  if  you’d  improve 
my  acquaintance.  I should  like  to  know  "you,  captain, 
very  much.  I really  am  in  want  of  a friend,  I am.  Lit- 
tle Dombey  was  my  friend  at  old  Blimber’s,  and  would 
have  been  now,  if  he’d  have  lived.  The  Chicken,”  said 
Mr.  Toots,  in  a forlorn  whisper,  " is  very  well — admira- 
ble in  his  way — the  sharpest  man  perhaps  in  the  world  ; 
there’s  not  a move  he  isn’t  up  to  ; everybody  says  so — but 
I don’t  know — he’s  not  everything.  So  she  is  an  angel, 
captain.  If  there  is  an  angel  anywhere,  it’s  Miss  Dom« 


196 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


bey.  Tbat’s  wliat  I've  always  said.  Really  tbougli,  you 
know/'  said  Mr.  Toots,  I should  be  very  much  obliged 
if  you  cultivate  my  acquaintance." 

Captain  Cuttle  receiVed  this  proposal  in  a polite  man- 
ner, but  still  without  committing  himself  to  its  accept- 
ance ; merely  observing,  Ay,  ay,  my  lad.  We  shall 
see,  we  shall  see  ; " and  reminding  Mr.  Toots  of  his  im- 
mediate mission,  by  inquiring  to  what  he  was  indebted 
for  the  honour  of  that  visit. 

Why  the  fact  is,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  ‘'that  it's  the 
young  woman  I come  from.  Not  Miss  Dombey — Susan, 
you  know." 

The  captain  nodded  his  head  once,  with  a grave  ex- 
pression of  his  face,  indicative  of  his  regarding  that 
young  woman  with  serious  respect. 

" And  I'll  tell  you  how  it  happens,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 
" You  know,  I go  and  call  sometimes,  on  Miss  Dombey. 
I don't  go  there  on  purpose,  you  know,  but  I happen  to 
be  in  the  neighbourhood  very  often  ; and  when  I find 
myself  there,  why — why  I call." 

"Nat'rally,"  observed  the  captain. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "I  called  this  afternoon. 
Upon  my  word  and  honour,  I don’t  think  it's  possible  to 
form  an  idea  of  the  angel  Miss  Dombey  was  this  after- 
noon." 

The  captain  answered  with  a jerk  of  his  head,  imply- 
ing that  it  might  not  be  easy  to  some  people,  but  was 
quite  so,  to  him. 

"As  I was  coming  out,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  " the  young 
woman,  in  the  most  unexpected  manner,  took  me  into 
the  pantry. " 

The  captain  seemed,  for  the  moment,  to  object  to  this 
proceeding  ; and  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  looked  at  Mr. 
Toots  with  a distrustful,  if  not  threatening  visage. 

" Where  she  brought  out,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  " this 
newspaper.  She  told  me  that  she  had  kept  it  from  Miss 
Dombey  all  day,  on  account  of  something  that  was  in  it, 
about  somebody  that  she  and  Dombey  used  to  know ; 
and  then  she  read  the  passage  to  me.  Very  well.  Then 
she  said — wait  a minute ; what  was  it,  she  said 
though  ! " 

Mr.  Toots,  endeavouring  to  concentrate  his  mental 
powers  on  this  question,  unintentionally  fixed  the  cap- 
tain's eye,  and  was  so  much  discomposed  by  its  stem  ex- 
pression, that  his  difficulty  in  resuming  the  thread  of 
his  subject  was  enhanced  to  a painful  extent. 

" Oh  ! " said  Mr.  Toots  after  long  consideration.  " Oh, 
ah  I Yes  ! She  said  that  she  hoped  there  was  a bare 
possibility  that  it  mightn’t  be  true;  and  that  as  she 
couldn't  very  well  come  out  herself,  without  surprising 


DOMBEY  ANI)  SON. 


197 


Miss  Dombey,  would  I go  down  to  Mr.  Solomon  Gills  the 
Instrument-maker’s  in  this  street,  who  was  the  party’s 
uncle,  and  ask  whether  he  believed  it  was  true,  or  had 
heard  anything  else  in  the  city.  She  said,  if  he  couldn’t 
speak  to  me,  no  doubt  Captain  Cuttle  could.  By  the 
bye  ! ” said  Mr.  Toots,  as  the  discovery  flashed  upon  him. 
**  you,  you  know  ! ” 

The  captain  glanced  at  the  newspaper  in  Mr.  Toots’s 
hand,  and  breathed  short  and  hurriedly. 

‘'Well,”  pursued  Mr.  Toots,  “the  reason  why  I’m 
rather  late  is,  because  I went  up  as  far  as  Finchley  first, 
to  get  some  uncommonly  fine  chickweed  that  grows 
there,  for  Miss  Dombey ’s  bird.  But  I came  on  here,  di- 
rectly afterwards.  You’ve  seen  the  paper,  I suppose  ? 

The  captain,  who  had  become  cautious  of  reading  the 
news,  lest  he  should  find  himself  advertised  at  full 
length  by  Mrs.  MacStinger,  shook  his  head. 

“Shall  I read  the  passage  to  you?”  inquired  Mr. 
Toots. 

The  captain  making  a sign  in  the  aflBrmative,  Mr.  Toots 
read  as  follows,  from  the  Shipping  Intelligence  : 

“ ‘ Southampton.  The  barque  Defiance,  Henry  James, 
Commander,  arrived  in  this  port  to-day,  with  a cargo  of 
sugar,  coffee  and  rum,  reports  that  being  becalmed  on  the 
sixth  day  of  her  passage  home  from  Jamaica,  in’ — in 
such  and  such  a latitude,  you  know,”  said  Mr.  Toots, 
after  making  a feeble  dash  at  the  figures,  and  tumbling 
over  them. 

“Ay  !”  cried  the  captain,  striking  his  clenched  hand 
on  the  table.  “ Heave  a-head,  my  lad  ! ” 

“ — latitude,”  repeated  Mr.  Toots,  with  a startled 
glance  at  the  captain,  “ and  longitude  so-and-so, — ‘ the 
lookout  observed,  half  an  hour  before  sunset,  some 
fragments  of  a wreck,  drifting  at  about  the  distance  of  a 
mile.  The  weather  being  clear,  and  the  barque  making 
no  way,  a boat  was  hoisted  out,  with  orders  to  inspect  the 
same,  when  they  were  found  to  consist  of  sundry  large 
spars,  and  a part  of  the  main  rigging  of  an  English  brig, 
of  about  five  hundred  tons  burden,  together  with  a por- 
tion of  the  stern  on  which  the  words  and  letters  “ Son 
and  H — were  yet  plainly  legible.  No  vestige  of  any 
dead  body  was  to  be  seen  upon  the  floating  fragments. 
Log  of  the  Defiance  states,  that  a breeze  springing  up  in 
the  night,  the  wreck  was  seen  no  more.  There  can  be 
no  doubt  that  all  surmises  as  to  the  fate  of  the  missing 
vessel,  the  Son  and  Heir,  port  of  London,  bound  for  Bar- 
badoes,  are  now  set  at  rest  for  ever  ; that  she  broke  up 
in  the  last  hurricane  ; and  that  every  soul  on  board  per^ 
ished,’” 

Captain  Cuttle,  like  alL  mankind,  little  knew  hovsr 


198 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


much,  hope  had  survived  within  him  under  discourage- 
ment, until  he  felt  its  death-shock.  During  the  reading 
of  the  paragraph,  and  for  a minufce  or  two  afterwards, 
he  sat  with  his  gaze  fixed  on  the  modest  Mr.  Toots,  like 
a man  entranced  ; then,  suddenly  rising,  and  putting  on 
his  glazed  hat,  which,  in  his  visitor’s  honour,  he  had 
laid  upon  the  table,  the  captain  turned  his  back,  and 
bent  his  head  down  on  the  little  chimney-piece. 

Oh,  upon  my  word  and  honour,”  cried  Mr.  Toots, 
whose  tender  heart  was  moved  by  the  captain’s  unex- 
pected distress,  this  is  a most  wretched  sort  of  affair 
this  world  is  I Somebody’s  always  dying,  or  going  and 
doing  something  uncomfortable  in  it.  I’m  sure  1 never 
should  have  looked  forward  so  much,  to  coming  into  my 
property,  if  I had  known  this.  I never  saw  such  a 
world.  It’s  a great  deal  worse  than  Blimber’s.” 

Captain  Cuttle,  without  altering  his  position,  signed 
to  Mr.  Toots  not  to  mind  him  ; and  presently  turned 
round,  with  his  glazed  hat  thrust  back  upon  his  ears, 
and  his  hand  composing  and  smoothing  his  brown  face, 

‘‘  Wal’r,  my  dear  lad,”  said  the  captain,  “ farewell  I 
Wal’r  my  child,  my  boy,  and  man,  I loved  you  ! He 
warn’t  my  flesh  and  blood,”  said  the  captain,  looking  at 
the  fire — ‘‘I  an’t  got  none — but  something  of  what  a 
father  feels  w^hen  he  loses  a son,  I feel  in  losing  Wal’r. 
For  why  ? ” said  the  captain.  ‘‘  Because  it  an’t  one  loss, 
but  a round  dozen.  Where’s  that  there  young  school- 
boy with  the  rosy  face  and  curly  hair,  that  used  to  be  as 
merry  in  this  here  parlour,  come  round  every  week,  as  a 
piece  of  mmsic?  Gone  down  with  Wal’r.  Where’s  that 
there  fresh  lad,  that  nothing  couldn’t  tire  nor  put  out, 
and  that  sparkled  up  and  blushed  so,  when  we  joked 
him  about  Heart’s  Delight,  that  he  was  beautiful  to  look 
at  ? Gone  down  with  Wal’r.  Where’s  that  there  man’s 
spirit,  all  afire,  that  wouldn’t  see  the  old  man  hove  down 
for  a minute,  and  cared  nothing  for  itself?  Gone  down 
with  Wal’r.  It  an’t  one  Wal’r.  There  was  a dozen 
Wal’rs  that  I knowed,  and  loved,  all  holding  round  his 
neck  when  he  went  down,  and  they’re  a-holding  round 
mine  now  ! ” 

Mr.  Toots  sat  silent  : folding  and  refolding  the  news- 
paper as  small  as  possible  upon  his  knee. 

And  Sol  Gills,”  said  the  captain,  gazing  at  the  fire, 

poor  nevyiess  old  Sol,  where  are  you  got  to  ! you  was 
left  in  charge  of  me  ; his  last  words  was,  ' Take  care  of 
my  uncle  ; ’ What  came  over  yoUy  Sol,  vdien  you  went 
and  gave  the  go-bye  to  Ned  Cuttle  ; and  what  am  I to 
put  in  my  accounts  that  he’s  a looking  down  upon, 
respecting  you  ! Sol  Gills,  Sol  Gills  ! ” said  the  captain, 
shaking  his  head  slowly,  catch  sight  of  that  there 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


199 


newspaper,  away  from  liome,  with  no  one  as  know’d 
Wakr  by,  to  say  a word  ; and  broadslde-to  you  broach, 
and  down  you  pitch,  head -foremost  ! ’’ 

Drawing  a heavy  sigh,  the  captain  turned  to  Mr. 
Toots,  and  roused  himself  to  a sustained  consciousness 
of  that  gentleman's  presence. 

‘‘My  lad,"'  said  the  captain,  “you  must  tell  the 
young  woman  honestly  that  this  here  fatal  news  is  too 
correct.  They  don't  romance,  you  see,  on  such  pints. 
It's  entered  on  the  ship's  log,  and  that's  the  truest  book 
as  a man  can  write.  To-morrow  morning,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, “I'll  step  out  and  make  inquiries;  but  they'll 
lead  to  no  good.  They  can't  do  it.  If  you'll  give  me  a 
look-in  in  the  forenoon,  you  shall  know  what  I have 
heerd  ; but  tell  the  young  woman  from  Cap'en  Cuttle, 
that  it's  over.  Over  ! " And  the  captain,  hooking  oS 
his  glazed  hat,  pulled  his  handkerchief  out  of  the  crown, 
wiped  his  grizzled  head  despairingly,  and  tossed  the 
handkerchief  in  again,  with  the  indifference  of  deep  de- 
jection. 

“Oh!  I assure  you,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  “really  I am 
drp/adfully  sorry.  Upon  my  word  I am,  though  I wasn't 
acquainted  with  the  party.  Do  you  think  Miss  Dombey 
will  be  very  much  affected.  Captain  Gills — I mean  Mr. 
Cuttle  ? " 

“ Why,  Lord  love  you,"  returned  the  captain,  with 
something  of  compassion  for  Mr.  Toots's  innocence. 

‘ ‘ When  she  \varn't  no  higher  than  that,  they  were  as 
fond  of  one  another  as  two  young  doves." 

“ Were  they  though  ! " said  Mr.  Toots,  with  a consider- 
ably lengthened  face. 

“ They  were  made  for  one  another,"  said  the  captain, 
mournfully  ; “ but  what  signifies  that  now?" 

“ Upon  my  word  and  honour,"  cried  Mr.  Toots,  blurt- 
ing out  his  words  through  a singular  combination  of. 
awkward  chuckles  and  emotion,  “ I'm  even  more  sorry 
than  I was  before.  You  know  Captain  Gills,  I — I posi- 
tively adore  Miss  Dombey  ; — I — I am  perfectly  sore  w^ith 
loving  her  ; " the  burst  with  which  this  confession  forced 
itself  out  of  the  unhappy  Mr.  Toots,  bespoke  the  vehe- 
mence of  his  feelings  ; “ but  what  would  be  the  good  of 
my  regarding  her  in  this  manner,  if  I wasn't  truly  sorry 
for  her  feeling  pain,  whatever  was  the  cause  of  it.  Mine 
an't  a selfish  affection,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  in 
the  confidence  engendered  by  his  having  been  a witness 
of  the  captain's  tenderness.  “It’s  the  sort  of  thing  with 
me.  Captain  Gills,  that  if  I could  be  run  over — or — or 
trampled  upon — or — dr  thrown  off  a very  high  place — or 
anything  of  that  sort — for  Miss  Dombey’ s sake,  it 
would  be  the  most  delightful  thing  that  could  happen  to 
me," 


200 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


All  this,  Mr.  Toots  said  a suppressed  voice,  to  prevent 
its  reaching  the  jealous  ears  of  the  Chicken,  who  ob- 
jected to  the  softer  emotions  ; which  effort  of  restraint, 
coupled  with  the  intensity  of  his  feelings,  made  him  red 
to  the  tips  of  his  ears,  and  caused  him  to  present  such 
an  affecting  spectacle  of  disinterested  love  to  the  eyes 
of  Captain  Cuttle,  that  the  good  captain  patted  him  con- 
solingly on  the  back,  and  bade  him  cheer  up. 

‘^Thank’ee,  Captain  Gills, said  Mr.  Toots,  it’s  kind 
of  you,  in  the  midst  of  your  own  troubles,  to  say  so. 
I’m  very  much  obliged  to  you.  As  I said  before,  1 really 
want  a friend,  and  should  be  glad  to  have  your  acquaint- 
ance. Although  I am  very  well  off.”  said  Mr.  Toots, 
with  energy,  ‘‘you  can’t  think  what  a miserable  beast  I 
am.  The  hollow  crowd,  you  know,  when  they  see  me 
with  the  Chicken,  and  characters  of  distinction  like  that, 
suppose  me  to  be  happy  ; but  I’m  wretched.  I suffer  for 
Miss  Bombey,  Captain  Gills.  I can’t  get  through  my 
meals  ; I have  no  pleasure  in  my  tailor ; I often  cry 
when  I’m  alone.  I assure  you  it’ll  be  a satisfaction  to 
me  to  come  back  to-morrow,  or  to  come  back  fifty 
times.” 

Mr.  Toots,  with  these  words,  shook  the  captain’s 
hand  ; and  disguising  such  traces  of  his  agitation  as 
could  be  disguised  on  so  short  a notice,  before  the 
Chicken’s  penetrating  glance,  rejoined  that  eminent  gen- 
tleman in  the  shop.  The  Chicken,  who  was  apt  to  be 
jealous  of  his  ascendancy,  eyed  Captain  Cuttle,  with 
anything  but  favour  as  he  took  leave  of  Mr.  Toots  ; but 
followed  his  patron  without  being  otherwise  demonstra- 
tive of  his  ill-will : leaving  the  captain  oppressed  with 
sorrow  ; and  Rob  the  Grinder  elevated  with  joy,  on  ac- 
count of  having  had  the  honour  of  staring  for  nearly 
half  an  hour,  at  the  conqueror  of  the  Nobby  Shropshire 
One. 

Long  after  Rob  was  fast  asleep  in  his  bed  under  the 
counter,  the  captain  sat  looking  at  the  fire  ; and  long 
after  there  was  no  fire  to  look  at,  the  captain  sat  gazing 
on  the  rusty  bars,  with  unavailing  thoughts  of  Walter 
and  old  Sol  crowding  through  his  mind.  Retirement  to  the 
stormy  chamber  at  the  top  of  the  house  brought  no  rest 
with  it  ; and  the  captain  rose  up  in  the  morning,  sorrow- 
ful and  un refreshed. 

As  soon  as  the  city  offices  were  open,  the  captain  is- 
sued forth  to  the  counting-house  of  Dombey  and  Son. 
But  there  was  no  opening  of  the  Midshipman’s  windows 
that  morning.  Rob  the  Grinder,  by  the  captain’s  or- 
ders, left  the  shutters  closed,  and  the  house  was  as  a 
house  of  death. 

It  chanced  that  Mr,  Carker  was  entering  the  office,  as 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


201 


Captain  Cuttle  arrived  at  the  door.  Receiving*  the  man- 
ager’s henison  gravely  and  silently.  Captain  Cuttle 
made  bold  to  accompany  him  into  his  own  room. 

‘‘  Well,  Captain  Cuttle/’  said  Mr.  Carker,  taking  up 
his  usual  position  before  the  fire-place,  and  keeping  on 
his  hat,  "'this  is  a bad  business.” 

''You  have  received  the  news  as  was  in  print  yester- 
day, sir?  ” said  the  captain. 

" Yes,”  said  Mr.  Carker,  "we  have  received  it!  It 
was  accurately  stated.  The  under- writers  suffer  a con- 
siderable loss.  We  are  very  sorry.  No  help  ! Such  is 
life  ! ” 

Mr.  Carker  pared  his  nails  delicately  ^vith  a penknife, 
and  smiled  at  the  captain,  who  was  standing  by  the  door 
looking  at  him. 

"I  excessively  regret  poor  Gay,”  said  Carker,  "and 
the  crew.  I understand  there  were  some  of  our  very  best 
men  among  ’em.  It  always  happens  so.  Many  men 
with  families  too.  A comfort  to  reflect  that  poor  Gay 
had  no  family.  Captain  Cuttle  ! ” 

The  captain  stood  rubbing  his  chin,  and  looking  at  the 
manager.  The  manager  glanced  at  the  unopened  let- 
ters lying  on  his  desk,  and  took  up  the  newspaper. 

" Is  there  anything  I can  do  for  you.  Captain  Cuttle  ? ” 
he  asked,  looking  off  it,  with  a smiling  and  expressive 
glance  at  the  door. 

" I wish  you  could  set  my  mind  at  rest,  sir,  on  some- 
thing it’s  uneasy  about,”  returned  the  captain. 

" Ay  ! ” exclaimed  the  manager,  " what’s  that  ? Come, 
Captain  Cuttle,  I must  trouble  you  to  be  quick,  if  you 
please.  I am  much  engaged.” 

" Look’ee  here,  sir,”  said  the  captain,  advancing  a 
step.  " Afore  my  friend  WaTr  went  on  this  here  disas- 
trous voyage — ” 

" Come,  come.  Captain  Cuttle,”  interposed  the  smiling 
manager,  " dont  talk  about  disastrous  voyages  in  that 
way.  We  have  nothing  to  do  with  disastrous  voyages 
here,  my  good  fellow.  You  must  have  begun  very  early 
on  your  day’s  allov/ance,  captain,  if  you  don’t  remember 
that  there  are  hazards  in  all  voyages  whether  by  sea  or 
land.  You  are  not  made  uneasy  by  the  supposition  that 
young  what’s-his-name  was  lost  in  bad  weather  that 
was  got  up  against  him  in  these  offices — are  you  ? Fie, 
captain  ! Sleep,  and  soda-water,  and  the  best  cures  for 
such  uneasiness  at  that.” 

" My  lad,”  returned  the  captain,  slowly — " you  are 
a’ most  a lad  to  me  and  so  I don’t  ask  your  pardon  for 
that  slip  of  a word, — if  you  find  any  pleasure  in  this 
here  sport,  you  an’t  the  gentleman  I took  you  for,  and  if 
you  an’t  the  gentleman  I took  you  for  may  be  my  mind 
has  call  to  be  uneasy.  Now  that  is  what  it  is,  Mr.  Car- 


202 


W0RB:S  op  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


ker. — Afore  that  poor  lad  went  away,  according  to 
orders,  lie  told  me  that  he  warn’t  a going  away  for  his 
own  good  or  for  promotion,  he  know'd.  It  was  my  be- 
lief that  he  was  wrong,  and  I told  him  so,  and  I come 
here,  your  head  governor  being  absent,  to  ask  a question 
or  two  of  you  in  a civil  way,  for  my  own  satisfaction. 
Them  questions  you  answered — free.  Now  it'll  ease  my 
mind  to  know,  when  all  is  over,  as  it  is,  and  when  what 
can’t  be  cured  must  be  endoored — for  which,  as  a scholar, 
you’ll  overhaul  the  book  it’s  in,  and  therefore  make  a 
note — to  know  once  more, -in  a word,  that  I warn’t  mis- 
taken ; that  I warn’t  back’ard  in  my  duty  when  I didn’t 
tell  the  old  man  what  Wal’r  told  me  ; and  that  the  wind 
was  truly  in  his  sail,  when  he  highsted  of  it  for  Bar- 
badoes  Harbour.  Mr.  Carker,”  said  the  captain,  in  the 
goodness  of  his  nature,  “ when  I was  here  last,  we  was 
very  pleasant  together.  If  I ain’t  been  altogether  so 
pleasant  myself  this  morning,  on  account  of  this  poor 
lad,  and  if  I have  chafed  again  any  obserwation  of  yours 
that  I might  have  fended  off,  my  name  is  Ed’ard  Cuttle, 
and  I ask  your  pardon.  ” 

Captain  Cuttle,”  returned  the  manager,  with  all  pos- 
sible politeness,  I must  ask  you  to  do  me  a favour.” 

■ ''And  what  is  it,  sir  ? ” inquired  the  captain. 

" To  have  the  goodness  to  walk  off,  if  you  please,”  re- 
joined the  manager,  stretching  forth  his  arm,  " and  to 
carry  your  jargon  somewhere  else.” 

Every  knob  in  the  captain’s  face  turned  white  with  as- 
tonishment and  indignation  ; even  the  red  rim  on  his 
forehead  faded,  like  a rainbow  among  the  gathering 
clouds. 

" I tell  you  what.  Captain  Cuttle,”  said  the  manager, 
shaking  his  forefinger  at  him,  and  showing  him  all  his 
teeth,  but  still  amiably  smiling,  " I was  much  too  lenient 
with  you  when  you  came  here  before.  You  belong  to 
an  artful  and  audacious  set  of  people.  In  my  desire  to 
save  young  what’s-his-name  from  being  kicked  out  of 
this  place,  neck  and  crop,  my  good  captain,  I tolerated 
you  ; but  for  once,  and  only  once.  Now,  go,  my  friend  ! ” 

The  captain  was  absolutely  rooted  to  the  ground,  and 
speechless. 

" Go,”  said  the  good-humoured  manager,  gathering  up 
his  skirts,  and  standing  astride  upon  the  hearth-rug, 
" like  a sensible  fellow,  and  let  us  have  no  turning  out, 
or  any  such  violent  measures.  If  Mr.  Dombey  were  here, 
captain,  you  might  be  obliged  to  leave  in  a more  igno- 
minious manner,  possibly.  I merely  say,  Go  ! ” 

The  captain,  laying  his  ponderous  hand  upon  his  chest, 
to  assist  himself  in  fetching  a deep  breath,  looked  at  Mr. 
Carker  from  head  to  foot,  and  looked  round  the  little 


BOMBEY  AND  SON. 


2oa 


room,  as  if  he  did  not  clearly  understand  where  he  was„ 
or  in  what  company. 

. ‘‘You  are  deep,  Captain  Cuttle,”  pursued  Carker,  with 
the  easy  and  vivacious  frankness  of  a man  of  the  world 
who  knew  the  world  too  well  to  he  ruffled  by  any  discov- 
ery of  misdoing,  when  it  did  not  immediately  concern 
himself  ; but  you  are  not  quite  out  of  soundings,  either 
— neither  you  nor  your  absent  friend,  captain.  What 
have  you  done  with  your  absent  friend,  hey?” 

Again  the  captain  laid  his  hand  upon  his  chest.  After 
drawing  another  deep  breath,  he  conjured  himself  to 
“ stand  by  ? ” But  in  a whisper. 

“ You  hatch  nice  little  plots,  and  hold  nice  little  coun- 
cils, and  make  nice  little  appointments,  and  receive  nice 
little  visitors,  too,  hey  ? ” said  Carker,  bending  his  brows 
upon  him,  without  showing  his  teeth  any  the  less  : but 
it's  a bold  measure  to  come  here  afterwards.  Not  like 
your  discretion  You  conspirators,  and  hiders,  and  run- 
ners-away,  should  know  better  than  that.  Will  you 
oblige  me  by  going  ? ” 

“ My  lad,”  gasped  the  captain,  in  a choked  and  trem- 
bling voice,  and  with  a curious  action  going  on  in  the 
ponderous  fist  ; “ there’s  a many  words  I could  wish  to 
say  to  you,  but  I don’t  rightly  know  where  they’re  stowed 
just  at  present.  My  young  friend,  Wal’r,  was  drownded 
only  last  night,  according  to  my  reckoning,  and  it  puts 
me  out,  you  see.  i5ut  you  and  me  will  come  alongside 
o’  one  another  again,  my  lad,”  said  the  captain,  holding 
up  his  hook,  “if  we  live.” 

“ It  w.ill  be  anything  but  shrewd  in  you,  my  good  fel- 
low, if  we  do,”  returned  the  manager,  with,  the  same 
frankness  ; “ for  you  may  rely,  I give  you  fair  warning, 
upon  my  detecting  and  exposing  you.  I don’t  pretend 
to  be  a more  moral  man  than  my  neighbours,  my  good 
captain  ; but  the  confidence  of  this  House,  or  of  any  mem- 
ber of  this  House,  is  not  to  be  abused  and  undermined 
while  I have  eyes  and  ears.  Good  day  ! ” said  Mr.  Car- 
ker, nodding  his  head. 

Captain  Cuttle,  looking  at  him  steadily  (Mr.  Carker 
looked  full  as  steadily  at  the  captain),  went  out  of  the 
office  and  left  him  standing  astride  before  the  fire,  as 
calm  and  pleasant  as  if  there  w'ere  no  more  spots  upon 
his  soul  than  on  his  pure  white  linen,  and  his  smooth 
sleek  skin. 

The  captain  glanced,  in  passing  through  the  outer 
counting-house,  at  the  desk  where  he  knew  poor  Walter 
had  been  used  to  sit,  now  occupied  by  another  young  boy, 
with  a face  almost  as  fresh  and  hopeful  as  his  on  the  day 
when  they  tapjied  the  famous  last  bottle  but  one  of  the 
old  Madeira,  in  the  little  back  parlour.  The  association 


504 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


of  ideas,  thus  awakened,  did  the  captain  a great  deal  of 
good  ; it  softened  him  in  the  very  height  of  bis  anger, 
and  brought  the  tears  into  his  eyes. 

Arrived  at  the  w^ooden  Midshipman’s  again,  and  sitting 
down  in  a comer  of  the  dark  shop,  the  captain’s  indig- 
nation, strong  as  it  was,  could  make  no  head  against  his 
grief;  Passion  seemed  not  only  to  do  wrong  and  vio- 
lence to  the  memory  of  the  dead,  but  to  be  infected  by 
death,  and  to  droop  and  decline  beside  it.  All  the  living 
knaves  and  liars  in  the  world,  were  nothing  to  the  hon- 
esty and  truth  of  one  dead  friend. 

The  only  thing  the  honest  captain  made  out  clearly, 
in  this  state  of  mind,  Elides  the  loss  of  Walter  was, 
that  with  him  almost  the  whole  world  of  Captain  Cuttle 
had  been  drowned.  If  he  reproached  himself  some- 
times, and  keenly  too,  for  having  ever  connived  at  Wal- 
ter’s innocent  deceit,  he  thought  at  least  as  often  of  the 
Mr.  Carker  whom  no  sea  could  ever  render  up  ; and  the 
■ Mr.  Dombey,  who  he  now  began  to  perceive  was  as  far 
beyond  human  recal  ; and  the  ‘‘Heart’s  Delight,”  with 
whom  he  must  never  foregather  again  ; and  the  Lovely 
Peg,  that  teak-built  and  trim  ballad,  that  had  gone 
ashore  upon  a rock,  and  split  into  mere  planks  and 
beams  of  rhyme. . The  captain  sat  in  the  dark  shop, 
thinking  of  these  things,  to  the  entire  exclusion  of  his 
own  injury ; and  looking  with  as  sad  an  eye  upon  the 
ground,  as  if  in  contemplation  of  their  actual  fragments 
as  they  floated  past  him. 

But  the  captain  was  not  unmindful,  for  all  that,  of 
such  decent  and  respectful  observances  in  mefnory  of 
poor  Walter,  as  he  felt  within  his  power.  Rousing  him- 
self, and  rousing  Rob  the  Grinder  (who  in  the  unnatural 
twilight  was  fast  asleep),  the  captain  sallied  forth  with 
his  attendant  at  his  heels,  and  the  door-key  in  his  pocket, 
and  repairing  to  one  of  those  convenient  slopselling  es- 
tablishments of  which  there  is  abundant  choice  at  the 
eastern  end  of  London,  purchased  on  the  spot  two  suits 
of  mourning — one  for  Rob  the  Grinder,  which  was  im- 
mensely too  small,  and  one  for  himself,  which  was  im- 
mensel}^  too  large.  He  also  provided  Rob  with  a species 
of  hat,  greatly  to  be  admired  for  its  symmetry  and  use- 
fulness, as  well  as  for  a happy  blending  of  the  mariner 
with  the  coal-heaver  ; which  is  usually  termed  a sou’- 
wester ; and  which  was  something  of  a novelty  in  con- 
nexion with  the  instrument  business.  In  their  several 
garments,  which  the  vendor  declared  to  be  such  a mira- 
cle in  point  of  fit  as  nothing  but  a rare  combination  of 
fortuitous  circumstances  ever  brought  about,  and  the 
fashion  of  which  was  unparalleled  wthin  the  memory 
of  the  oldest  inhabitant,  and  captain  and  Grinder  im- 
mediately arrayed  themselves  : presenting  a spectacle 
fraught  with  wonder  to  all  who  beheld  it. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


205 


In  this  altered  form,  the  captain  received  Mr.  Toots. 
Fm  took  aback,  mj  lad,  at  present,”  said  the  captain, 
and  will  only  confirm  that  there  ill  news.  Tell  the 
young  woman  to  break  it  gentle  to  the  young  lady,  and 
for  neither  of  ’em  never  to  think  of  me  no  more — 
’special,  mind  you,  that  is — though  I will  think  of  them, 
'when  night  comes  on  a hurricane  and  seas  is  mountains 
rowling  for  which  overhaul  your  Doctor  Watts,  brother, 
and  when  found  make  a note  on.  ” 

The  captain  reserved,  until  some  fitter  time,  the  con- 
sideration of  Mr.  Toots’s  offer  of  friendship,  and  thus 
dismissed  him.  Captain  Cuttle’s  spirits  were  so  low,  in 
truth,  that  he  half  determined,  that  day,  to  take  no  fur- 
ther precautions  against  surprise  from  Mrs.  MacStinger, 
but  to  abandon  himself  recklessly  to  chance, 'and  be  in- 
different to  what  might  happen.  As  evening  came  on, 
he  fell  into  a better  frame  of  mind,  however  ; and  spoke 
much  of  Waiter  to  Rob  the  Grinder,  whose  attention 
and  fidelity  he  likewise  incidentally  commended.  Rob 
did  not  blush  to  hear  the  captain  earnest  in  his  praises, 
but  sat  staring  at  him,  and  affecting  to  snivel  with  sym- 
pathy, and  making  a feint  of  being  virtuous,  and  treas- 
uring up  every  word  he  said  (like  a young  spy  as  he  was) 
with  very  promising  deceit. 

When  Rob  had  turned  in,  and  was  fast  asleep,  the 
captain  trimmed  the  candle,  put  on  his  spectacles — he  had 
felt  it  appropriate  to  take  to  spectacles  on  entering  into 
the  Instrument  Trade,  though  his  eyes  were  like  a 
hawk’s — and  opened  the  prayer-book  at  the  Burial  Ser- 
vice. And  reading  softly  to  himself,  in  the  little  back 
parlour,  and  stopping  now  and  then  to  wipe  his  eyes, 
the  captain,  in  a true  and  simple  spirit,  committed 
Waiter’s  body  to  the  deep. 


m 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

Contrasts. 

Turn  we  our  eyes  upon  two  liomes  ; not  lying  side  by 
side,  but  wide  apart,  though  both  within  easy  range  and 
reach  of  the  great  city  of  London. 

The  first  is  situated  in  the  green  and  wooded  country 
near  Norwood.  It  is  not  a mansion  ; it  is  of  no  preten- 
sions as  to  size  ; but  it  is  beautifully  arranged,  and  taste- 
fully kept.  The  lawn,  the  soft,  smooth  slope,  the  flower- 
garden,  the  clumps  of  trees  where  graceful  forms  of  ash 
and  willow  are  not  wanting,  the  conservatory,  the  rustic 
verandah  with  sweet-smelling  creeping  plants  entwined 
about  the  pillars,  the  simple  exterior  of  the  house,  the 
well-ordered  oflices,  though  all  upon  the  diminutive 
scale  proper  to  a mere  cottage,  bespeak  an  amount  of 
elegant  comfort  within,  that  might  serve  for  a palace. 
This  indication  is  not  without  warrant  ; for,  within  it  is 
a house  of  refinement  and  luxury.  Rich  colours,  excel- 
lently blended,  meet  the  eye  at  every  turn  ; in  the  furni- 
ture its  proportions  admirably  devised  to  suit  the  shapes 
and  sizes  of  the  small  rooms  ; on  the  walls;  upon  the  floors; 
tinging  and  subduing  the  light  that  comes  in  through 
the  odd  glass  doors  and  windows  here  and  there.  There 
are  a few  choice  prints  and  pictures,  too ; in  quaint 
nooks  and  recesses  there  is  no  want  of  books  ; and  there 
are  g-ames  of  skill  and  chance  set  forth  on  tables— fan- 
tastic chess-men,  dice,  back-gammon,  cards,  and  bil- 
liards. 

And  yet,  amidst  this  opulence  of  comfort,  there  is 
something  in  the  general  air  that  is  not  well.  Is  it  that 
the  carpets  and  the  cushions  are  too  soft  and  noiseless, 
so  that  those  who  move  or  repose  among  them  seem  to 
act  by  stealth  ! Is  it  that  the  prints  and  pictures  do  not 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


207 


commemorate  great  thoughts  or  deeds,  or  render  nature 
in  the  poetry  of  landscape,  hall,  or  hut,  but  are  of  one 
voluptuous  cast — mere  shows  of  form  and  colour  -and 
no  more  ? Is  it  that  the  books  have  all  their  gold  out- 
side, and  that  the  titles  of  the  greater  part  qualify  them 
to  be  companions  of  the  prints  and  pictures  ? Is  it  that 
the  completeness  and  the  beauty  of  the  place  is  here 
and  there  belied  by  an  atfectation  of  humility,  in  some 
unimportant  and  inexpensive  regard,  which  is  as  false 
as  the  face  of  the  too  truly  painted  portrait  hanging 
yonder,  or  its  original  at  breakfast,  in  his  easy  chair 
below  it  ? Or  is  it  that,  with  the  daily  breath  of  that 
original  and  master  of  all  here,  there  issues  forth  some 
subtle  portion  of  himself,  w’hich  gives  a vague  expres- 
sion of  himself  to  everything  about  him  ? 

It  is  Mr.  Carker  the  manager  who  sits  in  the  easy 
chair.  A gaudy  parrot  in  a burnished  cage  upon  the 
table  tears  at  the  wires  with  her  beak^  and  goes  walk/ 
ing  upside  down,  in  its  dome- top,  shaking  her  house  ana 
screeching ; but  Mr.  Carker  is  indifferent  to  the  bird, 
and  looks  with  a musing  smile  at  a picture  on  the  oppo- 
site wall. 

A most  extraordinary  accidental  likeness,  certainly,” 
says  he. 

Perhaps  it  is  a Juno  ; perhaps  a Potiphar’s  wife  ; per- 
haps some  scornful  nymph — according  as  the  Picture 
dealers  found  the  market,  v/hen  tliey  christened  it.  It 
is  the  figure  of  a woman,  supremely  handsome,  who, 
turning  away,  but  with  her  face  addressed  to  the  spec- 
tator, flashes  her  proud  glance  upon  him. 

It  is  like  Edith. 

With  a passing  gesture  of  his  hand  at  the  picture — 
what ! a menace?  No  ; yet  something  like  it.  A wave 
as  if  triumph?  No;  yet  more  like  that.  An  insolent 
salute  wafted  froffi  his  lips  ? No  ; yet  like  that  too — he 
resumes  his  breakfast,  and  calls  to  the  chafing  and  im- 
prisoned bird,  who,  coming  down  into  a pendant  gilded 
hoop  within  the  cage,  like  a great  wedding-ring,  swings 
in  it,  for  his  delight. 

The  second  home  is  on  the  other  side  of  London,  near 
to  where  the  busy  great  north  road  of  bygone  days  is 
silent  and  almost  deserted,  except  by  wayfarers  who  toil 
along  on  foot.  It  is  a poor,  small  house,  barely  and 
sparely  furnished,  but  very  clean  ; and  there  is  even  an 
attempt  to  decorate  it,  shown  in  the  homely  flowers 
trained  about  the  porch  and  in  the  narrow  garden.  The 
neighbourhood  in  which  it  stands  has  as  little  of  the 
country  to  recommend  it,  as  it  has  of  the  town.  It  is 
neither  of  the  town  nor  country.  The  former,  like  the 
giant  in  his  travelling  boots,  has  made  a stride  and 
passed  it,  and  has  set  his  brick-and-inortar  heel  a Ions: 


208 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS 


way  in  advance  ; but  the  Intermediate  space  between 
the  giant’s  feet,  as  yet,  is  only  blighted  country,  and  not 
town  ; and  here,  among  a few  tail  chimneys  belching 
smoke  all  day  and  night,  and  among  the  brick-fields  and 
the  lanes  where  turf  is  cut,  and  where  the  fences  tumble 
down,  and  where  the  dusty  nettles  grow,  and  where  a 
scrap  or  two  of  hedge  may  yet  be  seen,  and  where  the 
bird-catcher  still  c^mes  occasionally,  though  he  swears 
every  time  to  come  no  more — this  second  home  is  to  be 
found. 

She  who  inhabits  it,  is  she  who  left  the  first  in  her 
devotion  to  an  outcast  brother.  She  withdrew  from 
that  home  its  redeeming  spirit,  and  from  its  master’s 
breast  his  solitary  angel  : but  though  his  liking  for  her 
is  gone,  after  this  ungrateful  slight  as  he  considers  it ; 
and  though  he  abandons  her  altogether  in  return,  an  old 
idea  of  her  is  not  quite  forgotten  even  by  him.  Let  her 
fiower- garden,  in  which  he  never  sets  his  foot,  but 
which  is  yet  maintained,  among  all  his  costly  alterations, 
as  if  she  had  quitted  it  but  yesterday,  bear  witness  ! 

Harriet  Carter  has  changed  since  then,  and  on  her 
beauty  there  has  fallen  a heavier  shade  than  Time  of 
his  unassisted  self  can  cast,  all-potent  as  he  is — the 
shadow  of  anxiety  and  sorrow,  and  the  daily  struggle 
of  a poor  existence.  But  it  is  beauty  still  ; and  still  a 
gentle,  quiet,  and  retiring  beauty  that  must  be  sought 
out,  for  it  cannot  vaunt  itself ; if  it  could,  it  would  be 
what  it  is,  no  more. 

Yes.  This  slight,  small,  patient  figure,  neatly  dressed 
in  homely  stuffs,  and  indicating  nothing  but  the  dull, 
household  virtues,  that  have  so  little  in  common  with 
the  received  idea  of  heroism  and  greatness,  unless,  in- 
deed, any  ray  of  them  should  shine  through  the  lives  of 
the  great  ones  of  the  earth,  when  it  becom-es  a constel- 
lation and  is  tracked  in  Heaven  straightway— this  slight, 
small,  patient  figure,  leaning  oh  the  man  still  young  but 
worn  and  gray,  is  she  his  sister,  who,  of  all  the  world, 
went  over  to  him  in  his  shame  and  put  her  hand  in  his, 
and  with  a sweet  composure  and  determination,  led  him 
hopefully  upon  his  barren  way. 

“It  is  early,  John,”  she  said.  “ Why  do  you  go  so 
early  ? ” 

“ Not  many  minutes  earlier  than  usual,  Harriet.  If  I 
have  the  time  to  spare,  I should  like,  I think — it’s  a 
fancy — to  walk  once  by  the  house  where  I took  leave  of 
him.” 

“ I wish  I had  ever  seen  or  known  him,  John.” 

“ It  is  better  as  it  is,  my  dear,  remembering  his  fate.” 

But  I could  not  regret  it  more,  though  I had  known 
him.  Is  not  your  sorrow  mine  ? And  if  I had,  perhaps 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


309 


you  would  feel  tliat  I was  a Better  companion  to  you  in 
speaking  about  bim,  tiian  I may  seem  now/’ 

“ My  dearest  sister  ! Is  there  anything  within  the 
range  of  rejoicing  or  regi'et,  in  which  I am  not  sure  of 
your  companionship  ? ” 

‘‘  I hope  you  think  not,  John,  for  surely  there  is  no- 
thing I ” 

How  could  you  be  better  to  me,  or  nearer  to  me  then, 
than  you  are  in  this,  or  anything  ? ” said  her  brother, 

I feel  that  you  did  know  him,  Harriet,  and  that  you 
shared  my  feelings  towards  him.” 

She  drew  the  hand  which  had  been  resting  on  his 
shoulder,  round  his  neck,  and  answered,  with  some  hesi- 
tation : 

‘‘  No,  not  quite.” 

True,  true,”  he  said;  '‘you  think  I might  have 
done  him  no  harm  if  I had  allowed  myself  to  know  him 
better  ? ” 

“Think  ! I know  it.” 

“ Designedly,  Heaven  kliows  I would  not,”  he  replied, 
shaking  his  head  mournfully  : “ but  his  reputation  was 
too  precious  to  be  perilled  by  such  association.  Whe- 
ther you  share  that  knowledge,  or  do  not,  my  dear — ” 

“ I do  not,”  she  said  quietly. 

“ It  is  still  the  truth,  Harriet,  and  my  mind  is  lighter 
when  I think  of  him  for  that  which  made  it  so  much 
heavier  then.”  He  checked  himself  in  his  tone  of  mel- 
ancholy, and  smiled  upon  her  as  he  said  “ Good  bye.” 

“ Good  bye,  dear  John  ! In  the  evening,  at  the  old 
time  and  place,  I shall  meet  you  as  usual  on  your  way 
home.  Good  bye.” 

The  cordial  face  she  lifted  up  to  his  to  kiss  him,  was 
4is  home,  his  life,  his  universe,  and  yet  it  was  a portion 
of  his  punishment  and  gi’ief ; for  in  the  cloud  he  saw 
upon  it — though  serene  and  calm  as  any  radiant  cloud 
at  sunset-— and  in  the  constancy  and  devotion  of  her  life, 
and  in  the  sacrifice  she  had  made  of  ease, ’enjoyment, 
and  hope,  he  saw  the  bitter  fruits  of  his  old  crime,  for 
©ver  ripe  and  fresh. 

She  stood  at  the  door  looking  after  him,  with  her 
hands  loosely  clasped  in  each  other,  as  he  made  his  way 
over  the  frowzy  and  uneven  patch  of  ground  which  lay 
before  their  house,  which  had  once  (and  not  long  ago) 
been  a pleasant  meadow,  and  was  now  a very  waste, 
mth  a disorderly  crop  of  beginnings  of  mean  houses, 
rising  out  of  the  rubbish,  as  if  they  had  been  unskilful- 
ly sown  there.  Whenever  he  looked  back — as  once  or 
twice  he  did — her  cordial  face  shone  like  a light  upon 
his  heart ; but  when  he  plodded  on  his  way,  and  saw  her 
not,  the  tears  were  in  her  eyes  as  she  stood  watching 
him. 


/ 


210 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Her  pensive  form  was  not  long  idle  at  tlie  door. 
There  was  daily  duty  to  discharge,  and  daily  work  to  do 
—for  such  common-place  spirits  that  are  not  heroic, 
/)ften  work  hard  with  their  hands — and  Harriet  was  soon 
busy  with  her  household  tasks.  These  discharged,  and 
the  poor  hcuse  made  quite  neat  and  orderly,  she  counted 
her  little  stock  of  money  with  an  anxious  face,  and  went 
out  thoughtfully  to  buy  some  necessaries  for  their  table, 
planning  and  contriving,  as  she  went,  how  to  save.  So 
sordid  are  the  lives  of  such  low  natures,  who  are  not 
only  not  heroic  to  their  valets  and  waiting-women,  but 
have  neither  valets  nor  waiting- women  to  be  heroic  to 
withal  ! 

While  she  was  absent,  and  there  was  no  one  in  the 
house,  there  approached  it  by  a different  way  from  that 
the  brother  had  taken,  a gentleman,  a very  little  past 
his  prime  of  life  perhaps,  but  of  a healthy  florid  hue,  an 
upright  presence,  and  a bright  clear  aspect,  that  was 
gracious  and  good-humoured.  His  eyebrows  were  still 
black,  and  so  was  much  of  his  hair  ; the  sprinkling  of 
gray  observable  among  the  latter,  graced  the  former 
very  much,  and  showed  his  broad  frank  brow  and  hon- 
j^st  eyes  to  great  advantage. 

After  knocking  once  at  the  door,  and  obtaining  no  re- 
sponse, this  gentleman  sat  down  on  a bench  in  the  little 
norch  to  wait.  A certain  skilful  action  of  his  fingers  as 
te  hummed  some  bars,  and  beat  time  on  the  seat  beside 
him  seemed  to  denote  the  musician ; and  the  extraor- 
dinary satisfaction  he  derived  from  humming  something 
very  slow  and  long,  which  had  no  recognizable  tune, 
seemed  to  denote  th^at  he  was  a scientific  one. 

The  gentleman  was  still  twirling  a theme,  which 
seemed  to  go  round  and  round  and  round,  and  in  and  in 
and  in,  and  to  involve  itself  like  a corkscrew  twirled 
upon  a table,  without  getting  any  nearer  to  anything, 
when  Harriet  appeared  returning.  He  rose  up  as  she 
advanced,  and  stood  with  his  head  uncovered. 

"‘You  are  come  again,  sir  ! she  said  faltering. 

“ I take  that  liberty,”  he  answered.  “May  I ask  for 
five  minutes  of  your  leisure  ? ” 

After  a moment’s  hesitation,  she  opened  the  door,  and 
gave  him  admission  to  the  little  parlour.  The  gentle^ 
man  sat  down  there,  drew  his  chair  to  the  table  over 
against  her,  and  said,  in  a voice  that  perfectly  corre- 
sponded to  his  appearance,  and  with  a simplicity  that  was 
very  engaging  : 

" ‘ Miss  Harriet,  you  cannot  be  proud.  You  signified  to 
me,  when  I called  t’other  morning,  that  you  were.  Par- 
don me,  if  I say  that  I looked  into  your  face  while  yon 
spoke,  and  that  it  contradicted  you.  I look  into  it 
again,”  he  added,  laying  his  hand  gently  on  her  arm,  for 
an  instant,  “ and  it  contradicts  you  more  and  more.” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


211 


She  was  somewhat  confused  and  agitated,  and  could 
make  no  ready  answer. 

‘‘It  is  the  mirror  of  truth,”  said  her  visitor,  “and 
gentleness.  Excuse  my  trusting  to  it,  and  returning.” 

His  manner  of  saying  these  words,  divested  them  en- 
tirely of  the  character  of  compliments.  It  was  so  plain, 
grave,  unaffected,  and  sincere,  that  she  bent  her  head, 
as  if  at  once  to  thank  him  and  acknowledge  his  sincerity. 

“The  disparity  between  our  ages,’'  said  the  gentle- 
man, “ and  the  plainness  of  my  purpose,  empower  me, 
I am  glad  to  think,  to  speak  my  mind.  That  is  my 
mind ; and  so  you  see  me  for  the  second  time.” 

“ There  is  a kind  of  pride,  sir,”  she  returned,  after  a 
moment’s  silence,  “ or  what  may  be  supposed  to  be  pride, 
which  is  mere  duty.  I hope  I cherish  no  other.” 

“ For  yourself,”  he  said. 

“ For  myself.” 

“ But — pardon  me — ” suggested  the  gentleman.  “ Poi 
your  brother  John?” 

“Proud  of  his  love,  I am,”  said  Harriet,  looking  full 
upon  her  visitor,  and  changing  her  manner  on  the  in- 
stant— not  that  it  was  less  composed  and  quiet,  but  that 
there  was  a deep  impassioned  earnestness  in  it  that  made 
the  very  tremble  in  her  voice  a part  of  her  firmness, 
“and  proud  of  him.  Sir,  you  who  so  strangely  know 
the  story  of  his  life,  and  repeated  it  to  me  when  you 
were  here  last — ” 

“Merely  to  make  my  way  into  your  confidence,”  in- 
terposed the  gentleman.  “ For  Heaven’s  sake,  don’t  sup* 
pose — ” 

“ I am  sure,”  she  said,  “ you  revived  it,  in  my  hearing 
with  a kind  and  good  purpose.  I am  quite  sure  of  it.” 

“ I thank  you,”  returned  her  visitor,  pressing  her  hand 
hastily.  “ I am  much  obliged  to  you.  You  do  me  jus- 
tice, I assure  you.  You  were  going  to  say,  that  I,  who 
knew  the  story  of  John  Carker’s  life — ” 

“May  think  it  pride  in  me,”  she  continued,  “ when  I 
say  that  I am  proud  of  him  ! I am.  You  know  the  time 
was  when  I was  not — when  I could  not  be — but  that  is 
past.  The  humility  of  many  years,  the  uncomplaining 
expiation,  the  true  repentance,  the  terrible  regret,  th^^ 
pain  I know  he  has  even  in  my  affection,  which  he 
thinks  has  cost  me  dear,  though  Heaven  knows  I am 
happy,  but  for  his  sorrow  !— oh  sir,  after  what  I have 
seen,  let  me  conjure  you,  if  you  are  in  any  place  of  power^ 
and  are  ever  wronged,  never,  for  any  wrong,  inflict  p 
punishment  that  cannot  be  recalled  ; while  there  is  a 
God  above  us  to  work  changes  in  the  hearts  He  made.*^ 

“Your  brother  is  an  altered  man,”  returned  the  gen° 
tleinan,  compassionately.  “ I assure  you,  I don’t  doubi 
it” 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

^'Hewasan  altered  man  when  he  did  wrong,”  said 
Harriet.  “He  is  an  altered  man  again,  and  is  his  true 
self  now  believe  me,  sir.” 

“But  Ave  go  on,”  said  her  visitor,  rubbing  his  fore- 
head, in  an  absent  manner,  with  his  hand,  and  then  drum- 
ming thoughtfully  on  the  table,  “ we  go  on  in  our  clock, 
work  routine,  from  day  to  day,  and  can’t  make  out,  or 
follow,  these  changes.  They — they’re  a metaj)hysica^ 
sort  of  thing.  We — we  haven’t  leisure  for  it.  We — 
we  haven’t  courage.  They’re  not  taught  at  schools  or 
colleges,  and  we  don’t  know  how  to  set  about  it.  In 
short,  we  are  so  d d business-like,”  said  the  gentle- 

man, walking  to  the  window,  and  back,  and  sitting  down 
again,  in  a state  of  extreme  dissatisfaction  and  vexa- 
ti  ■ . 

• I am  sure,”  said  the  gentleman,  rubbing  his  forehead 
again,  and  drumming  on  the  table  as  before  ; “I  have 
good  reason  to  believe  that  a jog-trot  life,  the  same  from 
day  to  day,  would  reconcile  one  to  anything.  One  don’t 
see  anything,  one  don’t  hear  anything,  one  don’t  know 
itnything  ; that’s  the  fact.  We  go  on  taking  everything 
for  granted,  and  so  we  go  on,  until  whatever  we  do, 

rmd,  bad,  or  indifferent,  we  do  from  habit.  Habit  is  all 
shall  have  to  report,  when  I am  called  upon  to  plead  to 
my  conscience  on  my  death-bed.  ‘ Habit,’  says  I ; ‘ I 
was  deaf,  dumb,  blind,  and  paralytic,  to  a million  things, 
from  habit.’  ‘Very  business-like  indeed,  Mr.  What’s- 
your-name,  ’ says  Conscience,  ‘ but  it  won’t  do  here  ! ’ ” 
The  gentleman  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window 
again  and  back  : seriously  uneasy,  though  giving  his  un- 
easiness this  peculiar  expression. 

“Miss  Harriet,”  he  said,  resuming  his  chair,  “I 
wish  you  would  let  me  serve  you.  Look  at  me  ; I ought 
to  look  honest,  for  I know  I am  so,  at  present.  Do  I ? ” 

“ Yes,”  she  answered  with  a smile. 

“ I believe  every  word  you  have  said,”  he  returned. 
I am  full  of  self  reproach  that  I might  have  known 
this  and  seen  this,  and  known  you  and  seen  you,  any 
time  these  dozen  years,  and  that  I never  have.  I hardly 
know  how  I ever  got  here — creature  that  I am,  not  only 
of  my  own  habit,  but  of  other  people’s  ! But  having 
done  so,  let  me  do  something.  I ask  it  in  all  honour 
and  respect.  You  inspire  me  with  both,  in  the  highest 
degree.  Let  me  do  something.” 

“We  are  contented,  sir.” 

“No,  no,  not  quite,”  returned  the  gentleman.  “I 
think  not  quite.  There  are  some  little  comforts  that 
might  smooth  your  life,  and  his.  And  his!”  he  re- 
peated, fancying  that  had  made  some  impression  on  her. 
“ I have  been  in  the  habit  of  thinking  that  there  was 
nothing  wanting  to  be  done  for  hiin  ; that  it  was  all  set" 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


213 


tied  and  over  : in  short,  of  not  thinking  at  all  about  it. 
I am  different  now.  Let  me  do  something-  for  him.  Yog 
too/"  said  the  visitor,  with  careful  delicacy,  liave  need 
to  watch  your  health  closely,  for  his  sake,  and  I fear  it 
fails."" 

“Whoever  you  maybe,  sir,""  answered  Harriet,  rais- 
ing her  eyes  to  his  face,  “ I am  deeply  grateful  to  you. 
I feel  certain  that  in  all  you  say,  you  have  no  object  in 
the  world  but  kindness  to  us.  But  years  have  passed 
since  we  began  this  life  ; and  to  take  from  my  brother 
any  part  of  what  has  so  endeared  him  to  me,  and  so 
proved  his  better  resolution —any  fragment  of  the  merit 
of  his  unassisted,  obscure,  and  forgotten  reparation — 
would  be  to  diminish  the  comfort  it  will  be  to  him  and 
me,  when  that  time  comes  to  each  of  us,  of  which  you 
spoke  just  now.  I thank  you  better  with  these  tears 
than  any  words.  Believe  it,  pray."" 

The  gentleman  was  moved,  and  put  the  hand  she 
held  out  to  his  lips,  much  as  a tender  father  might  kiss 
the  hand  of  a dutiful  child.  But  more  reverently. 

“If  the  day  should  ever  come,""  said  Harriet,  “ when 
he  is  restored,  in  part,  to  the  position  he  lost — "" 

“Restored!""  cried  the  gentleman,  quickly.  “How 
can  that  be  hoped  for  ? In  whose  hands  does  the  power 
of  any  restoration  lie  ? It  is  no  mistake  of  mine,  surely, 
to  suppose  that  his  having  gained  the  priceless  iDlessing 
of  his  life,  is  one  cause  of  the  animosity  shown  to  him 
by  his  brother. "" 

“You  touch  upon  a subject  that  is  never  breathed  be- 
tween us  ; not  even  between  us,""  said  Harriet. 

“I  beg  your  forgiveness,""  said  the  visitor.  “ I should 
have  known  it.  I entreat  you  to  forget  that  I have  done 
so,  inadvertently.  And  now,  as  I dare  urge  no  more — 
as  I am  not  sure  that  I have  a right  to  do  so—though 
Heaven  knows,  even  that  doubt  may  be  habit,""  said  the 
gentleman,  rubbing  his  head,  as  despondently  as  before, 
“let  me  ; though  a stranger,  yet  no  stranger  ; ask  two 
favours."" 

“ What  are  they  ? ""  she  inquired. 

“ The  first,  that  if  you  should  see  cause  to  ch&ngi 
your  resolution,  you  will  suffer  me  to  be  as  your  right 
hand.  My  name  shall  then  be  at  your  service  ; it  is  use- 
less now,  and  always  insignificant."" 

“Our  choice  of  friends,""  she  answered,  smiling  faintly, 
“ is  not  so  great,  that  I need  any  time  for  considemtioHo 
I can  promise  that."" 

“ The  second,  that  you  will  allow  me  sometimes,  say 
every  Monday  morning,  at  nine  o"clock — habit  again — I 
must  be  business-like,""  said  the  gentleman,  with  ^ 
whimsical  inclination  to  quarrel  with  himself  on  that 
head,  “in  walking  past,  to  see  you  at  the  door  or  win* 


2U 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


dow.  I don’t  ask  to  come  in,  as  your  brother  will  be 
gone  out  at  that  hour.  I don’t  ask  to  speak  to  you.  1 
merely  ask  to  see,  for  the  satisfaction  of  my  own  mind, 
that  you  are  well,  and  without  intrusion  to  remind  you, 
by  the  sight  of  me,  that  you  have  a friend — an  elderly 
friend,  gray -haired  already,  and  fast  growing  grayer—^ 
whom  you  may  ever  command.” 

The  cordial  face  looked  up  in  his  ; confided  in  it ; and 
promised. 

‘‘I  understand,  as  before,”  said  the  gentleman,  rising, 
“ that  you  purpose  not  to  mention  my  visit  to  John  Car- 
ker,  lest  he  should  be  at  all  distressed  by  my  acquaint- 
ance with  his  history.  I am  glad  of  it,  for  it  is  out  of 
the  ordinary  course  of  things,  and — habit  again  ! ” said 
the  gentleman,  checking  himself  impatiently,  as  if 
there  were  no  better  course  than  the  ordinary  course  ! ” 

With  that  he  turned  to  go,  and  walking,  bare-headed, 
to  the  outside  of  the  little  porch,  took  leave  of  her  with 
such  a happy  mixture  of  unconstrained  respect  and  un- 
affected interest,  as  no  breeding  could  have  taught,  no 
truth  mistrusted,  and  nothing  but  a pure  and  single 
heart  expressed. 

Many  half-forgotten  emotions  were  awakened  in  the 
sister’s  mind  by  this  visit.  It  was  so.  very  long  since  any 
other  visitor  had  crossed  their  threshold ; it  was  so  very 
long  since  any  voice  of  sympathy  had  made  sad  music  in 
her  ears  ; that  the  stranger’s  figure  remained  present  to 
her,  hours  afterwards,  when  she  sat  at  the  window,  ply= 
ing  her  needle  ; and  his  words  seemed  newly  spoken, 
again  and  again.  He  had  touched  the  spring  that  opened 
her  whole  life  ; and  if  she  lost  him  for  a short  space,  it 
was  only  among  the  many  shapes  of  the  one  great  recol- 
lection of  which  that  life  was  made. 

Musing  and  working  by  turns  : now  constraining  her= 
self  to  be  steady  at  her  needle  for  a long  time  together, 
and  now  letting  her  work  fall,  unregarded,  on  her  lap, 
and  straying  wheresoever  her  busier  thoughts  led,  Har- 
riet Carker  found  the  hours  glide  by  her,  and  the  day 
steal  on.  The  morning,  which  had  been  bright  and  clear, 
gradually  became  overcast  ; a sharp  wind  set  in  ; the 
rain  fell  heavily  ; and  a dark  mist  drooping  over  the  dis- 
tant town,  hid  it  from  the  view. 

She  often  looked  with  compassion,  at  such  a time, 
upon  the  stragglers  who  came  wandering  into  London, 
by  the  great  highway  hard-by,  and  who,  footsore  and 
weary,  and  gazing  fearfully  at  the  huge  town  befoi*e 
them,  as  if  foreboding  that  their  misery  there  would  be 
but  as  a drop  of  water  in  the  sea,  or  as  a grain  of  sea-sand 
on  the  shore,  went  shrinking  on,  cowering  before  the 
angry  weather,  and  looking  as  if  the  very  elements  re- 
jected them.  Day  after  day,  such  travellers  crept  past. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


215 


bnt  always,  as  slie  tliought,  in  one  direction  — always 
towards  the  town.  Swallowed  up  in  one  phase  or  other 
of  its  immensity,  towards  which  they  seemed  impelled 
by  a desperate  fascination,  they  never  returned.  Food 
for  the  hospitals,  the  church -yards,  the  prisons,  the  river, 
fever,  madness,  vice,  and  death,— they  passed  on  to  the 
monster,  roaring  in  the  distance,  and  were  lost. 

The  chill  wind  was  howling,  and  the  rain  was  falling, 
and  the  day  was  darkening  moodily,  when  Harriet,  rais- 
ing her  eyes  from  the  v/ork  on  which  she  had  long  since 
been  engaged  with  unremitting  constancy,  saw  one  of 
these  travellers  approaching. 

A woman.  A solitary  v/oman  of  some  thirty  years  of 
age  ; tall ; well-formed  ; handsome  ; miserably  dressed  ; 
the  soil  of  many  country  roads  in  varied  weather — dust, 
chalk,  clay,  gravel — clotted  on  her  gray  cloak  by  the 
streaming  wet ; no  bonnet  on  her  head,  nothing  to  defend 
her  rich  black  hair  from  the  rain,  but  a torn  handker- 
chief ; with  the  fluttering  ends  of  which,  and  with  her 
hair,  the  wind  blinded  her  so  that  she  often  stopped  to 
push  them  back,  and  look  upon  the  way  she  was  going. 

She  was  in  the  act  of  doing  so,  when  Harriet  observed 
her.  As  her  hands,  parting  on  her  sun-burnt  forehead, 
swept  across  her  face,  and  threw  aside  the  hindrances 
that  encroached  upon  it,  there  was  a reckless  and  regard- 
less beauty  in  it ; a dauntless  and  depraved  indifference 
to  more  than  weather  : a carelessness  of  what  was  cast 
upon  her  bare  head  from  heaven  or  earth  : that,  coupled 
with  her  misery  and  loneliness,  touched  the  heart  of  her 
fellow- worn  an.  She  thought  of  all  that  was  perverted 
and  debased  within  her,  no  less  than  without : of  modest 
graces  of  the  mind,  hardened  and  steeled,  like  these  at- 
tractions of  the  person  ; of  the  many  gifts  of  the  Creator 
flung  to  the  winds  like  the  wild  hair  ; of  all  the  beautiful 
ruin  upon  which  the  storm  was  beating  and  the  night 
was  coming. 

Thinking  of  this,  she  did  not  turn  away  with  a deli- 
cate indignation — too  many  of  her  own  compassionate 
and  tender  sex  too  often  do — but  pitied  her. 

Her  fallen  sister  came  on,  looking  far  before  her,  try- 
ing with  her  eager  eyes  to  pierce  the  mist  in  which  the 
city  was  enshrouded,  and  glancing,  now  and  then,  from 
side  to  side,  with  the  bewildered  and  uncertain  aspect  of 
a stranger.  Though  her  tread  was  bold  and  courageous, 
she  was  fatigued,  and  after  a moment  of  irresolution,  sat 
down  upon  a heap  of  stones  ; seeking  no  shelter  from 
the  rain,  but  letting  it  rain  on  her  as  it  would. 

She  was  now  opposite  the  house  ; raising  her  head 
after  resting  it  for  a moment  on  both  hands,  her  eyes 
met  those  of  Harriet. 

In  a moment,  Harriet  was  at  the  door  ; and  the  cth^ 


216 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


rising  froAi  her  seat  at  her  heck,  came  slowly,  and  with 
no  conciliatory  look,  towards  her. 

Why  do  you  rest  in  the  rain  said  Harriet,  gently. 

Because  I have  no  other  resting- place,'’  was  the  reply. 

But  there  are  many  places  of  shelter  near  here 
This,”  referring  to  the  little  porch,  ‘‘is  better  than 
where  you  were.  You  are  very  welcome  to  rest  here.” 

The  wanderer  looked  at  her  in  doubt  and  surprise,  but 
without  any  expression  cf  thankfulness;  and  sitting 
down,  and  taking  off  one  of  her  worn  shoes  to  beat  out 
uhe  fragments  of  stone  and  dust  that  were  inside,  showed 
that  her  foot  was  cut  and  bleeding. 

Harriet  uttering  an  expression  of  pity,  the  travellei 
looked  up  with  a contemptuous  and  incredulous  smile. 

‘ ‘ Why  what's  a torn  foot  to  such  as  me  ? ''  she  said. 

And  what's  a torn  foot  in  such  as  me,  to  such  as  you  ? '' 

“ Come  in  and  wash  it,"  answered  Harriet,  mildly, 
“ and  let  me  give  you  something  to  bind  it  up." 

The  woman  caught  her  arm,  and  drawing  it  before  hex 
own  eyes,  hid  them  against  it,  and  wept.  Not  like  a 
woman,  but  like  a stern  man  surprised  into  that  weak- 
ness ; with  a violent  heaving  of  her  breast,  and  struggle 
for  recovery,  that  showed  how  unusual  the  emotion  was 
with  her. 

She  submitted  to  be  led  into  the  house,  and,  evidently 
more  in  gratitude  than  in  any  care  for  herself,  washed 
and  bound  the  injured  place.  Harriet  then  put  before  her 
fragments  of  her  own  frugal  dinner,  and  when  she  had 
eaten  of  them,  though  sparingly,  besought  her,  before 
resuming  her  road  (which  she  showed  her  anxiety  to  do), 
to  dry  her  clothes  before  the  fire.  Again,  more  in  grati- 
tude than  with  any  evidence  of  concern  in  her  own  behalf, 
she  sat  down  in  front  of  it,  and  umbinding  the  handker- 
chief about  her  head,  and  letting  her  thick  wet  hair  fall 
down  below  her  waist,  sat  drving  it  with  the  palms  of 
her  hands,  and  looking  at  the  blaze. 

“ I dare  say  you  are  thinking,"  she  said,  lifting  her 
head  suddenly,  “ that  I used  to  be  handsome,  once.  I 
believe  I was — I know  I was.  Look  here  ! " 

She  held  up  her  hair  roughly  with  both  hands  ; seizing 
it  as  if  she  would  have  torn  it  out  ; then,  threw  it  down 
again,  and  fiung  it  back  as  though  it  were  a heap  of  ser- 
pents. 

“ Are  you  a stranger  in  this  place  ? " asked  Harriet. 

“A  stranger  ! " she  returned,  stopping  between  each 
short  reply,  and  looking  at  the  fire,  “Yes.  Ten  or  a 
dozen  year«  a stranger.  I have  had  no  almanack  where 
I have  been.  Ten  or  a dozen  years.  I don't  know  this 
part.  It's  much  altered  since  I went  away." 

“ Have  you  been  far  ?" 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


217 


''  Very  far.  Months  upon  months  over  the  sea  and  far 
away  even  then.  I have  been  where  convicts  go,  ” she 
added,  looking  full  upon  her  entertainer.  “I  have  been 
one  myseK. 

. Heaven  help  you  and  forgive  you  I was  the  gentle 
'answer. 

Ah  ! Heaven  help  me  and  forgive  me  ! ''  she  returned, 
nodding  her  head  at  the  fire.  ‘ ' If  man  would  help  some 
of  us  a little  more,  God  would  forgive  us  all  the  sooner 
perhaps.'' 

But  she  was  softened  by  the  earnest  manner,  and  the 
cordial  face  so  full  of  mildness  and  so  free  from  judg 
ment  of  her,  and  said,  less  hardily  : 

“We  may  be  about  the  same  age,  you  and  I.  If  Lam 
older,  it  is  not  above  a year  or  two.  Oh,  think  of  that  ! " 

She  opened  her  arms,  as  though  the  exhibition  of  her 
outward  form  would  show  the  moral  wretch  she  was  ; and 
letting  them  drop  at  her  sides,  hung  down  her  head. 

“ There  is  nothing  we  may  not  hope  to  repair;  it  is 
never  too  late  to  amend,"  said  Harriet.  “You  are 
penitent — " 

“ No,"  she  answered  “ I am  not  ! I can't  be.  I am  no 
such  thing.  Why  should  I be  penitent,  and  all  the  world 
go  free.  They  talk  to  me  of  my  penitence.  Who's 
penitent  for  the  wrongs  that  have  been  done  to  me  ! " 

She  rose  up,  bound  her  handkerchief  about  her  head, 
and  turned  to  move  away. 

“Where  are  you  going ? " said  Harriet. 

“ Yonder,"  she  answered,  pointing  with  her  hand. 
“ To  London." 

“ Have  you  any  home  to  go  to?" 

“ I think  I have  a mother.  She's  as  much  a mother, 
as  her  dwelling  is  a home,"  she  answered  with  a bitter 
laugh. 

‘ ‘ Take  this,"  cried  Harriet,  putting  money  in  her  hand. 
“Try  to  do  well.  It  is  veiy  little,  but  for  one  day  it 
may  keep  you  from  harm." 

“ Are  you  married?"  said  the  other,  faintly,  as  she 
took  it. 

“No.  I live  here  with  my  brother.  We  have  not 
much  to  spare,  or  I would  give  you  more." 

“ Will  you  let  me  kiss  you  ?" 

Seeing  no  scorn  or  repugnance  in  her  face,  the  object 
of  her  charity  bent  over  her  as  she  asked  the  question, 
and  pressed  her  lips  against  her  cheek.  Once  more  she 
caught  her  arm,  and  covered  her  eyes  with  it ; and  then 
was  gone. 

Gone  into  the  deepening  night,  and  howling  wind, 
and  pelting  rain  ; urging  her  way  on  towards  the  mist- 
enshrouded  city  where  the  blurred  lights  gleamed  ; and 
with  her  black  hair,  and  disordered  head-gear,  fluttering 
round  her  reckless  face. 

# ,V<)L.  12 


218 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Amther  Mother  and  Daughter. 

In  an  ugly  and  dark  room,  an  old  woman,  ugly  and 
dark  too,  sat  listening  to  tke  wind  and  rain,  and  crouch- 
ing over  a meagre  fire.  More  constant  to  the  last-named 
occupation  than  the  first,  she  never  changed  her  attitude, 
unless,  when  any  stray  drops  of  rain  fell  hissing  on  the 
smouldering  embers,  to  raise  her  head  with  an  awakened 
attention  to  the  whistling  and  pattering  outside,  and 
gradually  to  let  it  fall  again  lower  and  lower  and  lower 
as  she  sunk  into  a brooding  state  of  thought,  in  which 
the  noises  of  the  night  were  as  indistinctly  regarded  as 
is  the  monotonous  rolling  of  a sea  by  one  who  sits  in 
contemplation  on  its  shore. 

There  was  no  light  in  the  room  save  that  which  the 
fire  afforded.  Glaring  sullenly  from  time  to  time  like 
the  eye  of  a fierce  beast  half  asleep,  it  revealed  no  ob- 
jects that  needed  to  be  jealous  of  a better  display.  A 
heap  of  rags,  a heap  of  bones,  a wretched  bed,  two  or 
three  mutilated  chairs  or  stools,  the  black  walls  and 
blacker  ceiling,  were  all  its  winking  brightness  shone 
upon.  As  the  old  woman,  with  a gigantic  and  distorted 
image  of  herself,  thrown  half  upon  the  wall  behind  her, 
half  upon  the  roof  above,  sat  bending  over  the  few  loose 
bricks  within  which  it  was  pent,  on  the  damp  hearth  of 
the  chimney — for  there  was  no  stove — she  looked  as  if 
she  were  watching  at  some  witch’s  altar  for  a favourable 
token  ; and  but  that  the  movement  of  her  chattering 
jaws  and  trembling  chin  was  too  frequent  and  too  fast 
for  the  slow  flickering  of  the  fire,  it  would  have  seemed 
an  illusion  wrought  by  the  light,  as  it  came  and  went, 
upon  a face  as  motionless  as  the  form  to  which  it  be- 
longed. 

If  Florence  could  have  stood  within  the  room  and 
looked  upon  the  original  of  the  shadow  thrown  upon  the 
wall  and  roof,  as  it  cowered  thus  over  the  fire,  a glance 
might  have  sufficed  to  recall  the  figure  of  Good  Mrs. 
Brown  ; notwithstanding  that  her  childish  recollection 
of  that  terrible  old  woman  was  as  grotesque  and  exag- 
gerated a presentiment  of  the  truth,  perhaps,  as  the 
shadow  on  the  wall.  But  Florence  was  not  there  to  look 
on  ; and  Good  Mrs.  Brown  remained  unrecognized,  and 
sat  staring  at  her  fire,  unobserved. 

Attracted  by  a louder  sputtering  than  usual,  as  the 
rain  came  hissing  down  the  chimney  in  a little  stream, 
the  old  woman  raised  her  head,  impatiently,  to  listen 


DOMBEY  AND  SON 


21S 


afresh.  And  this  time  she  did  not  drop  it  again  ; for 
there  was  a hand  upon  the  door,  and  a footstep  in  the 
room. 

Who’s  that  ? ”•  she  said,  looking  over  her  shoulder. 

“One  who  brings  you  news,”  was  the  answer,  in  a 
wonifin’s  voice. 

“News?  Wherefrom?” 

“ From  abroad.  ” 

“From  beyond  seas?”  cried  the  old  woman,  starting 

up. 

“ Ay,  from  beyond  seas.” 

The  old  woman  raked  the  fire  together,  hurriedly,  and 
going  close  to  her  visitor  who  had  entered,  and  shut  the 
door,  and  who  now  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  put 
her  hand  upon  the  drenched  cloak,  and  turned  the  unre- 
sisting figure,  so  as  to  have  it  in  the  full  light  of  the 
fire.  She  did  not  find  what  she  had  expected,  whatever 
that  might  be  ; for  she  let  the  cloak  go  again,  and  ut- 
tered a querulous  cry  of  disappointment  and  misery. 

“ What  is  the  matter?”  asked  her  visitor. 

“ Oho  ! Oho  ! ” cried  the  old  woman,  turning  her  face 
upward,  with  a terrible  howl. 

“ What  is  the  matter?  ” asked  the  visitor  again. 

“It’s  not  my  gal !”  cried  the  old  woman,  tossing  up 
her  arms,  and  clasping  lier  hands  above  her  head. 
“ Where’s  my  Alice  ? Where’s  my  handsome  daughter  ? 
They’ve  been  the  death  of  her  ! ” 

“ They’ve  not  been  the  death  of  her  yet,  if  your  name’s 
Mar  wood,”  said  her  visitor. 

“ Have  you  seen  my  gal,  then  ?”  cried  the  old  woman. 
“ Has  she  wrote  to  me  ? ” 

“ She  said  you  couldn’t  read,”  returned  the  other. 

“ No  more  I can  !”  exclaimed  the  old  woman,  wring- 
ing her  hands. 

“Have  you  no  light  here?”  said  the  other,  looking 
round  the  room. 

The  old  woman,  mumbling  and  shaking  her  head,  and 
muttering  to  herself  about  her  handsome  daughter, 
brought  a candle  from  a cupboard  in  the  corner,  and 
thrusting  it  into  the  fire  with  a trembling  hand,  lighted 
it  with  some  difficulty  and  set  it  on  the  table.  Its  dirty 
wick  burnt  dimly  at  first,  being  choked  in  its  own 
grease  ; and  when  the  bleared  eyes  and  failing  sight  of 
the  old  woman  could  distinguish  anything  by  its  light, 
her  visitor  was  sitting  with  her  arms  folded,  her  eyes 
turned  downwards,  and  a handkerchief  she  had  worn 
upon  her  head  lying  on  the  table  by  her  side. 

“She  sent  to  me  by  word  of  mouth  then,  my  gal, 
Alice?”  mumbled  the  old  woman,  after  waiting  for  some 
moments.  ‘ ‘ What  did  she  say  ? ” 

“ Look,”  returned  the  visitor. 


220 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


The  old  woman  repeated  the  word  in  a scared  uncertain 
way ; and,  shading  her  eyes,  looked  at  the  speaker,  round 
the  room,  and  at  the  speaker  once  again. 

Alice  said  look  again  mother;”' and  the  speaker 
fixed  her  eyes  upon  her. 

Again  the  old  woman  looked  round  the  room,  and  0 her 
visitor,  and  round  the  room  once  more.  Hastily  seizing 
the  candle,  and  rising  from  her  seat,  she  held  it  to  the 
visitor’s  face,  uttered  a loud  cry  set  down  the  light,  and 
fell  upon  her  neck  ! 

^^It’s  my  gal  ! It’s  my  Alice  ! It’s  my  handsome 
daughter  living  and  come  hack  ! ” screamed  the  old  wom- 
an, rocking  herself  to  and  fro  upon  the  breast  that  coldly 
suffered  her  embrace.  “It’s  my  gal  ! It’s  my  Alice! 
It’s  my  handsome  daughter,  living  and  come  back  I ” she 
screamed  again,  dropping  on  the  floor  before  her,  clasping 
her  knees,  laying  her  head  against  them,  and  still  rock- 
ing herself  to  and  fro  with  every  frantic  demonstration 
of  which  her  vitality  was  capable. 

“ Yes,  mother,”  returned  Alice,  stooping  forward  for  a 
moment,  and  kissing  her,  but  endeavouring,  even  in  the 
act,  to  disengage  herself  from  her  embrace.  “ I am  here, 
at  last.  Let  g*o,  mother  ; let  go.  Get  up,  and  sit  in  your 
chair.  What  good  does  this  do  ? ” 

“She’s  come  back  harder  than  she  went  !”  cried  the 
mother,  looking  up  in  her  face,  and  still  holding  to  her 
knees.  “ She  don’t  care  for  me  I after  all  these  years, 
and  all  the  wretched  life  I’ve  led  ! ” 

“ Why,  mother  I ” said  Alice,  shaking  her  ragged  skirts 
to  detach  the  old  woman  from  them:  “there  are  two 
sides  to  that.  There  have  been  years  for  me  as  well  as 
you,  and  there  has  been  wretchedness  for  me  as  well  as 
you.  Get  up,  get  up  ! ’ 

Her  mother  rose,  and  cried,  and  wrung  her  hands,  and 
stood  at  a little  distance  gazing  on  her.  Then  she  took 
the  candle  again,  and  going  round  her,  suweyed  her  from 
head  to  foot,  making  a low  moaning  all  the  time.  Then 
she  put  the  candle  down,  resumed  her  chair,  and  beating 
her  hands  together,  to  a kind  of  weary  tune,  and  rolling 
herself  from  side  to  side,  continued  moaning  and  wailing 
to  herself. 

Alice  got  up,  took  off  her  wet  cloak,  and  laid  it  aside. 
That  done  she  sat  down  as  before,  and  with  her  arms 
folded  ,and  her  eyes  gazing  at  the  fire,  remained  silently 
listening  with  a contemptuous  face  to  her  old  mother’s 
inarticulate  complainings. 

“Hid  you  expect  to  see  me  return  as  youthful  as  I 
went  away,  mother?”  she  said  at  length,  turning  her 
eyes  upon  the  old  woman.  “Hid  you  think  a foreign 
life,  like  mine,  was  good  for  good  looks?  One  would 
believe  so,  to  hear  you  ! ” 


“ she’s  come  back  harder  than  she  went  !”  CKAED  THE  MOTHER, 
LOOKING  UP  IN  HER  P^CE,  AND  STILL  HOLDING  TO  HER  KNEES. 

— Dombey  and  Son,  Vol.  Twelve,  page  221. 


222 


WOBKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


It  an’t  that  cried  the  mother.  She  knows  it  !’* 

What  is  it  then  ? ’’  returned  the  daughter.  It  had 
best  be  something  that  don’t  last,  mother,  or  my  way  out 
is  easier  than  my  way  in.” 

Hear  that ! ” exclaimed  the  mother.  After  all  these 
J^ears  she  threatens  to  desert  me  in  the  moment  of  her 
coming  back  again  ! ” 

I tell  you,  mother,  for  the  second  time,  there  have 
been  years  for  me  as  well  as  you,”  said  Alice.  ‘‘  Come 
back  harder?  Of  course  I have  come  back  harder. 

^ What  else  did  you  expect  ?” 

‘‘  Harder  to  me  ! To  her  own  dear  mother  ! ” cried  the 
old  woman. 

I don’t  know  who  began  to  harden  me,  if  my  own 
dear  mother  didn’t,”  she  returned,  sitting  with  her  folded 
arms,  and  knitted  browns,  and  compressed  lips  as  if  she 
were  bent  on  excluding,  by  force,  every  softer  feeling 
from  her  breast.  Listen,  mother,  to  a word  or  two. 
If  we  understand  each  other  now,  we  shall  not  fall  out 
any  more,  perhaps.  I went  away  a girl,  and  have  come 
back  a woman.  I went  away  undutiful  enough,  and  have 
come  back  no  better,  you  may  swear.  But  have  you  been 
very  dutiful  to  me  ? ” 

“I  !”  cried  the  old  woman.  “ To  my  own  gal  ! A 
mother  dutiful  to  her  own  child  ! ” 

It  sounds  unnatural,  don’t  it  ? ” returned  the  daugh- 
ter, looking  coldly  on  her  with  her  stem,  regardless, 
hardy,  beautiful  face  ; "‘but  I have  thought  of  it  some- 
times, in  the  course  of  my  lone  years,  till  I have  got  used 
to  it.  I have  heard  some  talk  about  duty  first  and  last ; 
but  it  has  always  been  of  my  duty  to  other  people.  I 
have  wondered  now  and  then — to  pass  away  the  time — 
whether  no  one  ever  owed  any  duty  to  me.” 

Her  mother  sat  mowing,  and  mumbling,  and  shaking 
her  head,  but  w^hether  angrily,  or  remorsefully,  or  in  de- 
nial, or  only  in  her  physical  infirmity,  did  not  appear. 

“There  was  a child  called  Alice  Marwood,”  said  the 
daughter,  with  a laugh,  and  looking  down  at  herself  in 
terrible  derision  of  herself,  “ born  among  poverty  and 
neglect,  and  nursed  in  it.  Nobody  taught  her,  nobody 
stepped  forward  to  help  her,  nobody  cared  for  her.” 

“ Nobody  !”  echoed  the  mother,  pointing  to  herself  and 
striking  her  breast. 

“ The  only  care  she  knew,”  returned  the  daughter, 
“ was  to  be  beaten,  and  stinted,  and  abused  sometimes  ; 
and  she  might  have  done  better  without  that.  She  liv- 
ed in  homes  like  this,  and  in  the  streets,  with  a crowd 
of  little  wretches  like  herself  ; and  yet  she  brought  good 
looks  out  of  this  childhood.  So  mujch  the  worse  for  her. 
She  had  better  have  been  hunted  and  worried  to  death 
for  ugliness.  ” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


223 


Go  on  ! go  on  ! ’’  exclaimed  the  mother, 
am  going  on,”  returned  the  mother.  There  was 
a girl  called  Alice  Marwood.  She  was  handsome.  She 
was  taught  too  late,  and  taught  all  wrong.  She  was 
too  well  cared  for,  too  well  trained,  too  well  helped  on 
too  much  looked  after.  You  were  very  fond  of  her — you 
were  better  off  then.  What  came  to  that  girl  comes  to 
thousands  every  year.  It  was  only  ruin,  and  she  was 
born  to  it.” 

‘‘After  all  these  years!”  whined  the  old  woman. 
“ My  gal  begins  with  this.'” 

“ She’ll  soon  have  ended,”  said  the  daughter.  “There 
was  a criminal  called  Alice  Marwood — a girl  still,  but 
deserted  and  an  outcast.  And  she  was  tried  and  she  was 
sentenced.  And  lord,  how  the  gentlemen  in  the  court 
talked  about  it ! and  how  grave  the  judge  was,  on  her 
duty,  and  on  her  having  perverted  the  gifts  of  nature  — 
as  if  he  didn’t  know  better  than  anybody  there,  that 
they  had  been  made  curses  to  her  1 — and  how  he  preach- 
ed about  the  strong  arm  of  the  Law — so  very  strong  to 
save  her,  when  she  was  an  innocent  and  helpless  little 
wretch  ! and  how  solemn  and  religious  it  all  was  ! I 
have  thought  of  that,  many  times  since,  to  be  sure.” 

She  folded  her  arms  tightly  on  her  breast,  and  laughed 
in  a tone  that  made  the  howl  of  the  old  woman  musical, 

“ So  Alice  Marwood  was  transported,  mother,”  she 
pursued,  “and  was  sent  to  learn  her  duty,  where  there 
was  twenty  times  less  duty,  and  more  wickedness,  and 
wrong,  and  infamy,  than  here.  And  Alice  Marwood  is 
come  back  a woman.  Such  a woman  as  she  ought  to  be 
after  all  this.  In  good  time,  there  will  be  more  solemn  • 
ity,  and  more  fine  talk,  and  more  strong  arm,  most  likely, 
and  there  will  be  an  end  of  her ; but  the  gentle- 
men needn’t  be  afraid  of  being  thrown  out  of  work. 
There’s  crowds  of  little  wretches,  boy  and  girl,  growing 
up  in  any  of  the  streets  they  live  in,  that’ll  keep  them  to 
it  till  they’ve  made  their  fortunes.” 

The  old  woman  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  table,  and 
resting  her  face  upon  her  two  hands,  made  a show  of 
being  in  great  distress — or  really  was,  perhaps. 

“ There  ! I have  done,  mother,”  said  the  daughter, 
v/ith  a motion  of  her  head,  as  if  in  dismissal  of  the  sub- 
ject. “ I have  said  enough.  Don’t  let  you  and  I talk 
of  being  dutiful,  whatever  we  do.  Your  childhood  was 
like  mine,  I suppose.  So  much  the  worse  for  both  of  us. 
I don’t  want  to  blame  you,  or  to  defend  myself  ; why 
should  I ? That’s  all  over,  long  ago.  But  I am  a 
woman — not  a girl,  now — and  you  and  I needn’t  make  a 
show  of  our  history,  like  the  gentlemen  in  the  court. 
We  know  all  about  it,  well  enough.” 

Lost  and  degraded  as  she  was,  there  was  a beauty  in 


824 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


her,  hotli  of  face  and  form,  whicli,  even  in  its  worst  ex- 
pression, could  not  but  be  recognised  as  such  by  any  one 
regarding  her  with  the  least  attention.  As  she  subsided 
into  silence,  and  her  face  which  had  been  harshly  agita- 
ted, quieted  down  ; while  her  dark  eyes,  fixed  upon  the 
fire,  exchanged  the  reckless  light  that  had  animated 
them  for  one  that  was  softened  by  something  like  sorrow; 
there  shone  through  all  her  way-worn  misery  and  fatigue 
a ray  of  the  departed  radiance  of  the  fallen  angel. 

Her  mother,  after  watching  her  for  some  time  without 
speaking,  ventured  to  steal  her  withered  hand  a little 
nearer  to  her  across  the  table  ; and  finding  that  she  per- 
mitted this,  to  touch  her  face  and  smooth  her  hair. 
With  the  feeling,  as  it  seemed,  that  the  old  woman  was 
at  least  sincere  in  this  show  of  interest,  Alice  made  no 
movement  to  check  her,  so,  advancing  by  degrees,  she 
bound  up  her  daughter’s  hair  afresh,  took  off  her  wet 
shoes,  if  they  deserved  the  name,  spread  something  dry 
upon  her  shoulders,  and  hovered  humbly  about  her, 
muttering  to  herself,  as  she  recognised  her  old  features 
and  expression  more  and  more. 

'‘You  are  very  poor,  mother,  I see,^^  said  Alice,  look» 
ing  round,  when  she  had  sat  thus  for  some  time. 

" Bitter  poor,  my  deary,’’  replied  the  old  woman. 

She  admired  her  daughter,  and  was  afraid  of  her. 
Perhaps  her  admiration,  such  as  it  v/as,  had  originated 
long  ago,  when  she  first  found  anything  that  was  beauti- 
ful appearing  in  the  midst  of  the  squalid  fight  of  her 
existence.  Perhaps  her  fear  was  referable,  in  some 
sort,  to  the  retrospect  she  had  so  lately  heard.  Be  this 
as  it  might,  she  stood,  submissively  and  deferentially, 
before  her  child,  and  inclined  her  head,  as  if  in  a pitiful 
entreaty  to  be  spared  any  further  reproach. 

“ How  have  you  lived  ? ” 

"By  begging,  my  deary.” 

" And  pilfering,  mother  ? ” 

"Sometimes,  Ally — in  a very  small  way.  I am  old 
and  timid.  I have  taken  trifles  from  children  now  and 
then,  my  deary,  but  not  often.  I have  tramped  about 
the  country,  pet,  and  I know  what  I know.  I have 
watched.  ” 

" Watched  ? ” returned  the  daughter,  looking  at  her. 

"I  have  hung  about  a family,  my  deary,”  said  the 
mother,  even  more  humbly  and  submissively  than  be^ 
fore. 

" What  family  ? ” 

" Hush,  darling.  Don’t  be  angry  with  me,  I did  it  for 
the  love  of  you.  In  memory  of  my  poor  gal  beyond 
seas.”  She  put  out  her  hand  deprecating! y,  and  draw- 
ing it  back  again,  laid  it  on  her  lips. 

" Years  ago,  my  deary,”  she  pursued,  glancing  timid*- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


22b 


ly  at  the  attentive  and  stern  face  opposed  to  her. 
came  across  his  little  child,  by  chance.'' 

Whose  child?" 

'^Not  his,  Alice  deary  ; don't  look  at  me  like  that  ; 
not  his.  How  could  it  be  his?  You  know  he  has 
none." 

Whose  then  ? " returned  the  daughter.  You  said 
his." 

Hush,  Ally  ; you  frighten  me,  deary.  Mr.  Dombey's 
— only  Mr.  Dombey's.  Since  then,  darling,  I have  seen 
them  often.  I have  seen  him” 

In  uttering  this  last  word,  the  old  woman  shrunk  and 
recoiled,  as  if  with  a sudden  fear  that  her  daughter 
would  strike  her.  But  though  the  daughter's  face  was 
fixed  upon  her,  and  expressed  the  most  vehement  pas- 
sion, she  remained  still : except  that  she  clenched  her 
arms  tighter  and  tighter  within  each  other,  on  her  bosom, 
as  if  to  restrain  them  by  that  means  from  doing  an  in- 
jury to  herself,  or  some  one  else,  in  the  blind  fury  of 
the  wrath  that  suddenly  possessed  her. 

Little  he  thought  who  1 was  ! " said  the  old  woman, 
shaking  her  clenched  hand. 

‘‘  And  little  he  cared  ! " muttered  her  daughter,  be- 
tween her  teeth. 

‘"But  there  we  were,"  said  the  old  woman,  “face  to 
face.  I spoke  to  him,  and  he  spoke  to  me.  I sat  and 
watched  him  as  he  went  away  down  a long  grove  of 
trees  ; and  at  every  step  he  took,  I cursed  him  soul  and 
body." 

“ He  will  thrive  in  spite  of  that,"  returned  the  daughter 
disdainfully. 

“ Ay,  he  is  thriving,"  said  her  mother. 

She  held  her  peace  ; for  the  face  and  form  before  her 
were  unshaped  by  rage.  It  seemed  as  if  the  bosom 
would  burst  with  the  emotions  that  strove  within  it. 
The  effort  that  constrained  and  held  it  pent  up,  was  no 
less  formidable  than  the  rage  itself  : no  less  bespeaking 
the  violent  and  dangerous  character  of  the  woman  who 
made  it.  But  it  succeeded,  and  she  asked,  after  a 
silence  : 

“ Is  he  married  ?" 

No,  deary,"  said  the  mother. 

“ Going  to  be  ? " 

“Not  that  I know  of,  deary.  But  his  master  and 
friend  is  married.  Oh,  we  may  give  him  joy  ! We  may 
give  'em  all  joy  ! " cried  the  old  woman,  hugging  herseH 
with  her  lean  arms  in  her  exultation.  “ Nothing  but 
joy  to  us  will  come  of  that  marriage.  Mind  me  1 " 

The  daughter  looked  at  her  for  an  explanation. 

“ But  you  are  wet  and  tired  : hungry  and  thirsty,"  said 
the  old  woman,  hobbling  to  the  cupboard  ? “ and  there's 


226 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


little  liere,  and  little — ” diving  down  into  her  pocketj 
and  Jingling  a few  halfpence  on  the  table — little  here. 
Have  you  any  money,  x4.1ice,  deary  ? '' 

The  covetous,  sharp,  eager  face  with  which  she 
asked  the  question  and  looked  on,  as  her  daughter  took 
out  of  her  bosom  the  little  gift  she  had  so  lately  re- 
ceived, told  almost  as  much  of  the  history  of  this  parent 
and  child  as  the  child  herself  had  told  in  words. 

‘‘  Is  that  all  ? ” said  the  mother. 

I have  no  more.  I should  not  have  this,  but  for 
charity. 

‘*But  for  charity,  eh,  deary?”  said  the  old  woman, 
Ibending  greedily  over  the  table  to  look  at  the  money, 
which  she  appeared  distrustful  of  her  daughter's  still 
retaining  in  her  hand,  and  gazing  on.  ‘‘  Humph  1 six  and 
six  is  twelve  and  six  eighteen — so — we  must  make  the 
most  of  it.  ril  go  buy  something  to  eat  and  drink.” 

With  greater  alacrity  than  might  have  been  expected 
in  one  of  her  appearance — for  age  and  misery  seemed  to 
have  made  her  as  decrepit  as  ugly — she  began  to  occupy 
her  trembling  hands  in  tying  an  old  bonnet  on  her  head, 
and  folding  a torn  shawl  about  herself  : still  eyeing  the 
money  in  her  daughter's  hand,  with  the  same  sharp  de- 
sire. 

What  joy  is  to  come  to  us  of  this  marriage, 
mother ?”  asked  the  daughter.  ‘'You  have  not  told  me 
that.” 

“ The  joy,”  she  replied,  attiring  herself,  with  fum- 
bling fingers,  "of  no  love  at  all,  and  much  pride  and 
hate,  my  deary.  The  joy  of  confusion  and  strife  among 
'em,  proud  as  they  are,  and  of  danger — danger,  Alice  ? ” 

" What  danger  ?” 

"/have  seen  what  I have  seen.  I know  what  I 
know!”  chuckled  the  mother.  "Let  some  look  to  it. 
Let  some  be  upon  their  guard.  My  gal  may  keep  good 
company  yet  1 ” 

Then,  seeing  that  in  the  wondering  earnestness  with 
which  her  daughter  regarded  her,  her  hand  ; voluntarily 
closed  upon  the  money,  the  old  woman  made  more  speed 
to  secure  it,  and  hurriedly  added,  " but  I'll  go  buy  some- 
thing, I'll  go  buy  something.” 

As  she  stood  with  her  hand  stretched  out  before  her 
daughter,  her  daughter,  glancing  again  at  the  money, 
jjput  it  to  her  lips  before  parting  with  it. 

" What,  Ally  I Do  you  kiss  it  ? ” chuckled  the  old 
woman.  " That's  like  me  -I  often  do.  Oh,  it's  so  good 
to  us  If  ^ squeezing  her  own  tarnished  halfpence  up  to 
her  bag  of  a throat,  " so  good  to  us  in  everything  but 
not  coming  in  heaps  ! ” 

"I  kiss  it,  mother,”  said  the  daughter,  " or  I did  then 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


227 


9^1  don’t  know  that  I ever  did  before — for  the  giver’s 
^ake.” 

"‘The  giver,  eh,  deary?”  retorted  the  old  woman, 
whose  dimmed  eyes  glistened  as  she  took  it.  Ay  1 
fll  kiss  it  for  the  giver’s  sake,  too,  when  the  giver  can 
nake  it  go  farther.  But  I’ll  go  spend  it,  deary.  Fll  be 
tack  directly.” 

“ You  seem  to  say  you  know  a great  deal,  mother,” 
sgaid  the  daughter,  following  her  to  the  door  with  her 
^es.  “You  have  grown  very  wise  since  we  parted.” 

“ Know  ! ” croaked  the  old  woman,  coming  back  a step 
or  two,  “I  know  more  than  you  link.  I know  more 
than  Tie  thinks,  deary,  as  I’ll  tell  you  by-and-by.  I know 
ail  about  him.” 

The  daughter  smiled  iueredulously. 

“ I know  of  his  brother,  Alice,”  said  the  old  woman, 
stretching  out  her  neck  with  a leer  of  malice  absolutely 
frightful,  “ who  might  have  been  where  you  have  been 
—for  stealing  money — and  who  lives  with  his  sister, 
over  yonder,  by  the  north  road  out  of  London.” 

“ Where?” 

“ By  the  north  road  out  of  London,  deary.  You  shall 
see  the  house,  if  you  like.  It  ain’t  much  to  boast  of, 
genteel  as  his  own  is.  No,  no,  no,”  cried  the  old  woman 
shaking  her  head  and  laughing  ; for  her  daughter  had 
started  up,  “ not  now  ; it’s  too  far  off  ; it’s  by  the  mile- 
stone, where  the  stones  are  heaped  ; to-morrow,  deary, 
if  it’s  fine,  and  you  are  in  the  humour.  But  I’ll  go 
spend — ” 

“ Stop  ! ” and  the  daughter  flung  herself  upon  her, 
with  her  former  passion  raging  like  a fire.  “ The  sister 
is  a fair-faced  devil,  with  brown  hair  ? ” 

ITie  old  woman,  amazed  and  terrified,  nodded  her  head. 

“ I see  the  shadow  of  him  in  her  face  ! It  is  a red 
house  standing  by  itself.  Before  the  door,  there  is  8 
small  green  porch,” 

Again  the  old  woman  nodded, 

“In  which  I sat  to-day  ! Give  me  back  the  money.” 

“Alice!  Deary!” 

“ Give  me  back  the  money,  or  youTl  be  hurt.” 

She  forced  it  from  the  old  woman’s  hand  as  she  spoke^ 
and  utterly  indifferent  to  her  complainings  and  entrea^ 
ties,  threw  on  the  garments  she  had  taken  off,  and  hur« 
rjed  out,  with  headlong  speed. 

The  mother  followed,  limping  after  her  as  she  could^ 
and  expostulating  with  no  more  effect  upon  her  than 
upon  the  wind  and  rain  and  darkness  that  encompassed 
them.  Obdurate  and  fierce  in  her  own  purpose,  and  in 
different  to  all  besides,  the  daughter  defied  the  weather 
and  the  distance,  as  if  she  had  known  no  travel  or  fa» 


228 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tigue,  and  made  for  the  house  where  she  had  been  re- 
lieT  sd.  After  some  quarter  of  an  hour’s  walking,  the 
old  woman,  spent  and  out  of  breath,  ventured  to  hold 
by  her  skirts ; but  she  ventured  no  more,  and  they  trav- 
elled on  in  silence  through  the  wet  and  gloom.  If  the 
mother  now  and  then  uttered  a word  of  complaint,  she 
stifled  ^it  lest  her  daughter  should  break  away  from  her 
and  leave  her  behind  ; and  the  daughter  was  dumb. 

It  was  within  an  hour  or  so  of  midnight,  when  they 
left  the  regular  streets  behind  them,  and  entered  on  the 
deeper  gloom  of  that  neutral  ground  where  the  house 
was  situated.  The  town  lay  in  the  distance,  lurid  and 
lowering  ; the  bleak  wind  howled  over  the  open  space ; 
all  around  was  black,  wild,  desolate. 

This  is  a fit  place  for  me  ! ” said  the  daughter,  stop- 
ping to  look  back.  I thought  so,  when  I was  herq 
before,  to-day.” 

Alice,  my  deary,”  cried  the  mother,  pulling  h«r 
gently  by  the  skirt.  “ Alice  ! ” 

“ What  now,  mother  ? ” 

‘‘Don’t  give  the  money  back,  my  darling;  pleas® 
don’t.  We  can’t  afford  it.  We  want  supper  deary. 
Money  is  money,  whoever  gives  it.  Say  what  you  willj, 
but  keep  the  money.” 

“ See  there  ! ” v/as  all  the  daughter’s  answer.  “ That 
is  the  house  I mean.  Is  that  it  ? ” 

The  old  woman  nodded  in  the  affirmative  ; and  a few 
more  paces  brought  them  to  the  threshold.  There  was 
the  light  of  fire  and  candle  in  the  room  where  Alice  had 
sat  to  dry  her  clothes  ; and  m her  knocking  at  the  door, 
John  Carker  appeared  from  that  room. 

He  was  surprised  to  see  such  visitors  at  such  an  hour, 
and  asked  Alice  what  she  wanted. 

“ I want  your  sister,”  she  said.  “The  woman  who 
gave  me  money  to-day.” 

At  the  sound  of  her  raised  voice,  Harriet  came  out. 

“ Oh  !”  said  Alice.  “You  are  here.  Do  you  remem- 
ber me  ? ” 

“Yes,”  she  answered,  wondering. 

The  face  that  had  humbled  itself  before  her,  looked 
on  her  now  with  such  invincible  hatred  and  defiance ; 
and  the  hand  that  had  gently  touched  her  aim,  was 
clenched  with  such  a show  of  evil  purpose,  as  if  it  would 
gladiy  strangle  her ; that  she  drew  her  brother  close  to 
her  for  protection. 

“That  I could  speak  with  you  and  not  know  you  ! 
That  I could  come  near  you,  and  not  feel  what  blood  was 
running  in  your  veins,  by  the  tingling  of  my  own  I ” said 
Alice  with  a menacing  gesture. 

“ What  do  you  mean  ? What  have  I done  ?” 

Done  I ” returned  the  other.  “ You  have  sat  me  by 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


329 


your  Are  ; you  have  gi  ven  me  food  and  money  ; you 
have  bestowed  your  compassion  on  me  I You  ! whose 
name  I spit  upon  ! ” 

The  old  woman,  with  a malevolence  that  made  her 
ugliness  quite  awful,  shook  her  withered  hand  at  the 
brother  and  sister  in  confirmation  of  her  daughter,  but 
plucked  her  by  the  skirts  again,  imploring  her  to  keep 
the  money. 

If  I dropped  a tear  upon  your  hand,  may  it  wither  it 
up  ! If  I spoke  a gentle  word  in  your  hearing,  may  it 
deafen  you  I If  I touched  you  with  my  lips,  may  the 
touch  be  poison  to  you  ! A curse  upon  this  roof  that 
gave  me  shelter  ! Sorrow  and  shame  upon  your  head  F 
Ruin  upon  all  belonging  to  you  I 

As  she  said  the  words,  she  threw  the  money  down  up- 
on the  ground,  and  spurned  it  with  her  foot. 

I tread  it  in  the  dust  : I wouldn’t  take  it  if  it  paved 
my  way  to  Heaven  ! I wish  the  bleeding  foot  that 
brought  me  here  to-day,  had  rotted  off,  before  it  led  me 
to  your  house  ! ” 

Harriet,  pale  and  trembling,  restrained  her  brother, 
and  suffered  her  to  go  on  unmolested. 

''  It  was  well  that  I should  be  pitied  and  forgiven  by  you, 
or  any  one  of  your  name,  in  the  first  hour  of  my  return  ! 
It  was  well  that  you  should  act  the  kind  good  lady  to 
me  ! ril  thank  you  when  I die  ; I’ll  pray  for  you,  and 
all  your  race,  you  may  be  sure  ! ” 

With  a fierce  action  of  her  hand,  as  if  she  sprinkled 
hatred  on  the  ground,  and  with  it  devoted  those  who 
were  standing  there  to  destruction,  she  looked  up  at  the 
black  sky,  and  strode  out  into  the  wild  night. 

The  mother,  who  had  plucked  at  her  skirts  again  and 
again  in  vain,  and  had  eyed  the  money  lying  on  the  thres- 
hold with  an  absorbing  greed  that  seemed  to  concentrate 
her  faculties  upon  it,  would  have  prowled  about  until 
tbe  house  was  dark,  and  then  groped  in  the  mire  on  the 
chance  of  repossessing  herself  of  it.  But  the  daughter 
drew  her  away,  and  they  set  forth,  straight,  on  their  re- 
turn to  their  dwelling  : the  old  woman  whimpering  and 
bemoaning  their  loss  upon  the  road,  and  fretfully  bewail- 
ing, as  openly  as  she  dared,  the  undutifnl  conduct  of  her 
handsome  girl  in  depriving  her  of  a supper,  on  the  very 
first  eight  of  their  re-union. 

Supperless  to  bed  she  went,  saving  for  a few  coarse 
fragments  ; and  those  she  sat  mumbling  and  munching 
over  a scrap  of  fire,  long  after  her  nndutiful  daughter  lay 
asleep. 

Were  this  miserable  mother,  and  this  miserable  daugh- 
ter, only  the  reduction  to  their  lowest  grade,  of  certain 
social  vices  sometimes  prevailing  higher  up  ? In  ihk) 


230 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


round  world  of  many  circles  within  circles,  do  we  malre 
a weary  journey  from  the  high  grade  to  the  low,  to  find 
at  last  that  they  lie  close  together,  that  the  two  extremes 
touch,  and  that  our  journey’s  end  is  but  our  starting-place? 
Allowing  for  great  difference  of  stuff  and  texture,  was 
the  pattern  of  this  woof  repeated  among  gentle  blood 
at  all  ? 

Say,  Edith  Dombey  I And  Cleopatra,  best  of  mothers^ 
let  us  have  your  testimony  ! 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

The  Happy  Pair, 

The  dark  blot  on  the  street  is  gone.  Mr.  Dombey’s 
mansion,  if  it  be  a gap  among  the  other  houses  any 
longer,  is  only  so  because  it  is  not  to  be  vied  with  in  its 
brightness,  and  haughtily  casts  them  off.  The  saying 
is,  that  home  is  home,  be  it  never  so  homely.  If  it  hold 
good  in  the  opposite  contingency,  and  home  is  home  be 
it  never  so  stately,  what  an  altar  to  the  Household  Gods 
is  raised  up  here  ! 

Lights  are  sparkling  in  the  windows  this  evening,  and 
the  ruddy  glow  of  fires  is  warm  and  bright  upon  the 
hangings  and  soft  carpets,  and  the  dinner  waits  to  be 
served,  and  the  dinner-table  is  handsomely  set  forth, 
though  only  for  four  persons,  and  the  sideboard  is  cum- 
brous with  plate.  It  is  the  first  time  that  the  house  has 
been  arranged  for  occupation  since  its  late  changes,  and 
the  happy  pair  are  looked  for  every  minute. 

Only  second  to  the  wedding  morning,  in  the  interest 
and  expectation  it  engenders  among  the  household,  is 
this  evening  of  the  coming  home.  Mrs.  Perch  is  in  the 
kitchen  taking  tea  ; and  has  made  the  tour  of  the  estab- 
lishment, and  priced  the  silks  and  damasks  by  the  yard, 
and  exhausted  every  interjection  in  the  dictionary  and 
out  of  it  expressive  of  admiration  and  wonder.  The 
upholsterer’s  foreman,  who  has  left  his  hat,  with  a 
pocket-handkerchief  in  it,  both  smelling  strongly  of 
varnish,  under  a chair  in  the  hall,  lurks  about  the  house, 
gazing  upward  at  the  cornices,  and  downward  at  the  car- 
pets, and  occasionally,  in  a silent  transport  of  enjoy- 
ment, taking  a rule  out  of  his  pocket,  and  skirmishingly 
measuring  expensive  objects,  with  unutterable  feelings. 
Cook  is  in  high  spirits,  and  says  give  Tier  a place  where 
there’s  plenty  of  company  (as  she’ll  bet  you  sixpence 
there  will  be  now),  for  she  is  of  a lively  disposition,  and 
she  always  was  from  a child,  and  she  don’t  mind  who 
knows  it ; which  sentiment  elicits  from  the  breast  of 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


231 


Mrs.  Perch  a responsive  murmur  of  support  and  appro, 
hation.  Ail  the  housemaid  hopes  is,  happiness  for  ’em 
— but  marriage  is  a lottery,  and  the  more  she  thinks 
about  it,  the  more  she  feels  the  independence  and  the 
safety  of  a single  life.  Mr.  Towlinson  is  saturnine  and 
grim,  and  says  that’s  his  opinion  too,  and  give  him  war 
besides,  and  down  with  the  French — for  this  young  man 
has  a general  impression  that  every  foreigner  is  a French- 
man, and  must  be  by  the  laws  of  nature. 

At  each  new  sound  of  wheels,  they  all  stop,  whatever 
they  are  saying,  and  listen  ; and  more  than  once  there 
is  a general  starting  up  and  a cry  of  Here  they  are  !’* 
But  here  they  are  not  yet ; and  cook  begins  to  mourn 
over  the  dinner,  which  has  been  put  back  tv/ice,  and  tli« 
upholsterer’s  foreman  still  goes  lurking  about  the  rooms, 
undisturbed  in  his  blissful  reverie  I 

Florence  is  ready  to  receive  her  father  and  her  new 
mama.  Whether  the  emotions  that  are  throbbing  in  her 
breast  originate  in  pleasure  or  in  pain,  she  hardly  knows, 
but  the  fluttering  heart  sends  added  colour  to  her  cheeks, 
and  brightness  to  her  eyes  ; and  they  say  down-stairs, 
drawing  their  heads  together — for  they  always  speak 
softly  when  they  speak  of  her— how  beautiful  Miss 
Florence  looks  to-night,  and  what  a sweet  young  lady 
she  has  grown,  poor  dear  ! A pause  succeeds  ; and  then 
cook,  feeling  as  president,  that  her  sentiments  are 
waited  for,  wonders  whether — and  there  stops.  The 
housemaid  wonders  too,  and  so  does  Mrs.  Perch,  who 
has  the  happy  social  faculty  of  always  wondering  when 
other  people  wonder,  without  being  at  all  particular 
what  she  wonders  at.  Mr.  Towlinson,  who  now  descries 
an  opportunity  of  bringing  down  the  spirits  of  the 
ladies  to  his  own  level,  says  wait  and  see  : he  wishes 
some  people  were  well  out  of  this.  Cook  leads  a sigh 
then,  and  a murmur  of  Ah,  it’s  a strange  world, — it  iM 
indeed  ! ” and  when  it  has  gone  round  the  table,  adds 
, persuasively,  but  Miss  Florence  can’t  well  be  the 
worse  for  any  change,  Tom.”  Mr.  Towlinson’s  rejoinder, 
pregnant  with  frightful  meaning,  is,  “Oh,  can’t  she 
though  ! ” and  sensible  that  a mere  man  can  scarcely  be 
more  prophetic,  or  improve  upon  that,  he  holds  his 
peace. 

Mrs.  Skewton,  prepared  to  greet  her  darling  daughter 
and  dear  son-in-law  with  open  arms,  is  appropriately  at- 
tired for  that  purpose  in  a very  youthful  costume,  with 
short  sleeves.  At  present,  however,  her  ripe  charms  are 
blooming  in  the  shade  of  her  own  apartments,  whence 
she  has  not  emerged  since  she  took  possession  of  them  a 
few  hours  ago,  and  where  she  is  fast  growing  fretful,  on 
account  of  the  postj^onement  of  dinner.  The  maid  who 
ought  to'  be  a skeleton,  but  is  in  truth  a buxom  damsel. 


232 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


is,  on  the  other  hand,  in  a most  amiable  state  ; consider, 
ing  her  quarterly  stipend  much  safer  than  heretofore, 
and  foreseeing  a great  improvement  in  her  board  an(5 
lodging. 

Where  are  the  happy  pair,  for  whom  this  brave  home 
is  waiting  ? Do  stean),  tide,  wind,  and  horses,  all  abate 
their  speed  to  linger  on  such  happiness?  Does  the 
swarm  of  loves  and  graces  hovering  about  them  retard 
their  progress  by  its  numbers?  Are  there  so  many 
flowers  in  their  happy  path,  that  they  can  scarcely  move 
along,  without  entanglement  in  thornless  roses  and 
sweetest  briar  ? 

They  are  here  at  last ! The  noise  of  wheels  is 
heard,  grows  louder,  and  a carriage  drives  up  to  the 
door  ! A thundering  knock  from  the  obnoxious  foreigner 
anticipates  the  rush  of  Mr.  Towlinson  and  party  to  open 
it ; and  Mr.  Dombey  and  his  bride  alight,  and  walk  in 
arm  in  arm. 

‘ ‘ My  sweetest  Edith  ! cries  an  agitated  voice  upon 
the  stairs.  ‘‘My  dearest  Dombey!”  and  the  short 
sleeves  wreath  themselves  about  the  happy  couple  in 
turn,  and  embrace  them. 

Florence  had  come  down  to  the  hall  too,  but  did  not 
advance  : reserving  her  timid  welcome  until  those  nearer 
and  dearer  transports  should  subside.  But  the  eyes  of 
Edith  sought  her  out  upon  the  threshold  ; and  dismiss- 
ing her  sensitive  parent  with  a slight  kiss  on  the  cheek, 
she  hurried  on  to  Florence  and  embraced  her. 

“ How  do  you  do,  Florence  ?’'  said  Mr.  Dombey ,~put- 
ting  out  his  hand. 

As  Florence,  trembling,  raised  it  to  her  lips,  she  met 
his  glance.  The  look  was  cold  and  distant  enough,  but 
it  stirred  her  heart  to  think  that  she  observ^ed  in  it  some- 
^ing  more  of  interest  than  he  had  ever  shown  before. 
It  even  expressed  a kind  of  faint  surprise,  and  not  a 
disagreeable  surprise,  at  sight  of  her.  She  dared  not 
raise  her  eyes  to  his  any  more  ; but  she  felt  that  he 
looked  at  her  once  again,  and  not  less  favourably.  Oh  I , 
what  a thrill  of  joy  shot  through  her,  awakened  by  even 
this  intangible  and  baseless  confirmation  of  her  hope  that 
she  would  learn  to  win  Llm,  through  her  new  and  beau- 
tiful mama. 

“You  will  not  be  long  dressing,  Mrs.  Dombey,  I pre- 
sume  ? ” said  Mr.  Dombey. 

“I  shall  be  ready  immediately.” 

“ Let  them  send  up  dinner  in  a quarter  of  an  hour.” 

With  that  Mr.  Dombey  stalked  aw’ay  to  his  own  dress- 
ing-room, and  Mrs.  Dombey  went  up-stairs  to  hers, 
Mrs.  Skewton  and  Florence  repaired  to  the  drawing- 
room, where  that  excellent  mother  considered  it  incum 
bent  on  her  to  shed  a few  irrepressible  tears,  supposed 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


238 


to  be  forced  from  her  by  her  daughter's  felicity  ; an^ 
which  she  was  still  drying,  very^ gingerly,  with  a laced 
comer  of  her  pocket-handkerchief,  when  her  son-in-law 
appeared. 

•'And  lijw,  my  dearest  Dombey,  did  you  find  that 
delightfullest  of  cities,  Paris?''  she  asked,  subduing  her 
emotion. 

" It  was  cold, " returned  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Gay  as  ever?"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "of  course.” 

"Not  particularly.  I thought  it  dull,”  said  Mr. 
Dombey. 

" Fie,  my  dearest  Dombey  I ” archly  ; " dull  I " 

" It  made  that  impression  upon  me,  madam,”  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  with  grave  politeness.  " I believe  Mrs.  Dom- 
found  it  dull  too.  She  mentioned  once  or  twice  that 
she  thought  it  so.” 

" Why,  you  naughty  girl  ! ” cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  ral- 
lying her  dear  child,  who  now  entered,  "what  dread- 
fully heretical  things  have  you  been  saying  about 
Paris  ? ” 

Edith  raised  her  eyebrov/s  with  an  air  of  weariness ; 
and  passing  the  folding-doors,  which  were  thrown  open 
to  display  the  suite  of  rooms  in  their  new  and  handsome 
garniture,  and  barely  glancing  at  them  as  she  passed,  sat 
down  by  Florence. 

" My  dear  Dombey,”  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "how  charm- 
ingly these  people  have  carried  out  every  idea  that  we 
hinted.  They  have  made  a perfect  palace  of  the  house, 
positively.” 

"It  is  handsome,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  round. 

' I directed  that  no  expense  should  be  spared  ; and  all 
that  money  could  do,  has  been  done,  I believe.  ” 

"And  what  can  it^  not  do,  dear  Dombey?”  observed 
Cleopatra. 

" It  is  powerful,  madam,”  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

He  looked  in  a solemn  way  towards  his  wife,  but  not 
a word  said  she. 

" I hope,  Mrs.  Dombey,”  addressing  her  after  a mo- 
ment's silence,  with  especial  distinctness ; " that  these 
alterations  meet  with  your  approval?” 

" They  are  as  handsome  as  they  can  be,”  she  returned, 
with  haughty  carelessness.  " They  should  be  so,  of 
course.  And  I suppose  they  are.” 

An  expression  of  scorn  was  habitual  to  the  proud  face, 
ssnd  seemed  inseparable  from  it ; but  the  contempt  with 
which  it  received  any  appeal  to  admiration,  respect,  or 
consideration  on  the  ground  of  his  liches,  no  matter  how 
slight  or  ordinary  in  itself,  was  a new  and  different  ex- 
pression, unequalled  in  intensity  by  any  other  of  which 
it  was  capable.  Whether  Mr.  Dombey,  wrapped  in  his 
own  greatness,  was  at  all  aware  of  this,  or  no,  there  had 


WORKO  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


not  been  wanting  opportunities  already  for  bis  complete 
enlightenment ; and  at  that  moment  it  might  have 
been  effected  by  the  one  glance  of  the  dark  eye  that 
lighted  on  him,  after  it  had  rapidly  and  ecomfully  sur- 
veyed the  theme  of  his  self-glorification.  He  might 
have  read  in  that  one  glance  that  nothing  that  his  wealth 
could  do,  though  it  were  increased  ten  thousand  fold, 
could  win  him  for  its  own  sake, one  look  of  softened  recog- 
nition from  the  defiant  woman  linked  to  him,  but  arrayed 
with  her  whole  soul  against  him.  He  might  have  read  in 
that  one  glance  that  even  for  its  sordid  and  mercenary 
influence  upon  herself,  she  spurned  it,  while  she  claimed 
its  utmost  power  as  her  right,  her  bargain — as  the  base 
and  worthless  recompense  for  which  she  had  become  his 
wife.  He  might  have  read  in  it  that,  ever  baring  her 
own  head  for  the  lightning  of  her  own  contempt  aifd 
pride  to  strike,  the  m.ost  innocent  allusion  to  the  power 
of  his  riches  degraded  her  anew,  sunk  her  deeper  in  her 
own  respect,  and  made  the  blight  and  waste  within  her 
more  complete. 

But  dinner  was  announced,  and  Mr.  Dombey  led  down 
Cleopatra  ; Edith  and  his  daughter  following.  Sweeping 
past  the  gold  and  silver  demonstration  on  the  sideboard 
as  if  it  were  heaped-up  dirt,  and  deigning  to  bestow  no 
look  upon  the  elegances  around  her,  she  took  her  place 
at  his  board  for  the  first  time,  and  sat,  like  a statue,  at 
the  feast. 

Mr.  Dombey,  being  a good  deal  in  the  statue  way  him- 
self, was  well  enough  pleased  to  see  his  handsome  wife 
immovable  and  proud  and  cold.  Her  deportment  being 
always  elegant  and  graceful,  this  as  a general  behaviour 
was  agreeable  and  congenial  to  him.  Presidipg,  there- 
fore with  his  accustomed  dignity,  and  not  at  all  reflecting 
on  his  wife  by  any  warmth  or  hilarity  of  his  own,  he  per- 
formed his  share  of  the  honours  of  the  table  with  a cool 
satisfaction  ; and  the  installation  dinner,  though  not  re- 
garded down-stairs  as  a great  success,  or  very  promising 
beginning,  passed  off,  above,  in  a suflaciently  polite, 
genteel,  and  frosty  manner. 

Soon  after  tea,  Mrs.  Skewton,  who  affected  to  be  quit© 
overcome  and  worn  out  by  her  emotions  of  happiness, 
arising  ii^  the  contemplations  of  her  dear  child  united  to 
the  man  of  her  heart,  but  who,  there  is  reason  to  suppose, 
found  this  family  party  somewhat  dull,  as  she  yawned 
for  one  hour  continually  behind  her  fan,  retired  to  bed, 
Edith,  also,  silently  withdrew  and  came  back  no  mor@o 
Thus,  it  happened  that  Florence,  who  had  been  up-stairs 
to  have  some  conversation  with  Diogenes,  returning  to 
the  drawing-room  with  her  little  work-basket,  found  no 
one  there  but  her  father,  who  was  walking  to  and  fro,  in 
dreary  magnificence. 


DOMBBY  AND  SON. 


235 


“ 1 beg  your  pardon.  Shall  I go  away,  papa  ?”  said 
Florence  faintly,  hesitating  at  the  door. 

returned  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  round  over  his 
shoulder  ; you  can  come  and  go  here,  Florence,  as  you 
please.  This  is  not  niy  private  room.’’ 

Florence  entered,  and  sat  down  at  a distant  little  table 
with  her  work  : finding  herself  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life — for  the  very  first  time  within  her  memory  from  her 
infancy  to  that  hour — alone  with  her  father,  as  his'  com- 
panion. She,  his  natural  companion,  his  only  child, 
who  in  her  lonely  life  and  grief  had  known  the  sulfering 
of  a breaking  heart ; who,  in  her  rejected  love,  had  never 
breathed  his  name  to  God  at  night,  but  with  a tearful 
blessing,  heavier  on  him  than  a curse  ; who  had  prayed 
to  die  young,  so  she  might  only  die  in  his  arms  ; who 
had,  all  through,  repaid  the  agony  of  slight  and  coldness, 
and  dislike,  with  patient  unexacting  love,  excusing  him, 
and  pleading  for  him,  like  his  better  angel ! ” 

She  trembled,  and  her  eyes  were  dim.  His  figure 
seemed  to  grow  in  height  and  bulk  before  her  as  he 
paced  the  room  ; now  it  was  all  blurred  and  indistinct ; 
now  clear  again,  and  plain  ; and  now  she  seemed  to 
think  that  this  had  happened,  just  the  same,  a multitude 
of  years  ago.  She  yearned  toward  him,  and  yet  shrunk 
from  his  approach.  Unnatural  emotion  in  a cliild,  inno- 
cent of  wrong  ! Unnatural  the  hand  that  had  directed 
the  sharp  plough,  which  furrowed  up  her  gentle  nature 
for  the  sowing  of  its  seeds  ! 

Bent  upon  not  distressing  or  offending  him  by  her  dis- 
tress, Florence  controlled  herself,  and  sat  quietly  at  her 
work.  After  a few  more  turns  across  and  across  the 
room,  he  left  off  pacing  it ; and  mthdrawing  into  a 
shadowy  corner  at  some  distance  where  there  was  an 
easy  chair,  covered  his  head  with  a handkerchief,  and 
composed  himself  to  sleep. 

It  was  enough  for  Florence  to  sit  there,  watching  him; 
^mlng  her  eyes  towards  his  chair  from  time  to  time  ; 
watching  him  with  her  thoughts,  when  her  face  was  in- 
tent upon  her  work  ; and  sorrowfully  glad  to  think  that 
he  couM  sleep,  while  she  was  there,  and  that  he  was  not 
made  restless  by  her  strange  and  long- forbidden  pres- 
ence. 

What  would  have  been  her  thoughts  if  she  had  known 
that  he  was  steadily  regarding  her ; that  the  veil  upon 
liis  face,  by  accident  or  by  design,  was  so  adjusted  that 
Ms  sight  was  free,  and  that  it  never  wandered  from  her 
face  an  instant.  That  when  she  looked  tov/ard  him,  in 
(the  obscure  dark  corner,  her  speaking  eyes,  more  earnest 
Bnd  pathetic  in  their  voiceless  speech  than  all  the  orators 
uf  all  the  world,  and  impeaching  him  more  nearly  in  their 
mute  address,  met  his,  and  did  not  know  it.  Thatwhen 


238 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


filie  bent  her  bead  again  over  her  work,  be  drew  bis 
breath  more  easily,  but  with  the  same  atteution  locked 
upon  her  still — upon  her  white  brow  and  her  falling  hair, 
and  busy  bands  ; and  once  attracted,  seemed  to  have  no 
power  to  turn  his  eyes  away  ! 

And  what  were  his  thoughts  meanwhile  ? With  what 
emotions  did  he  prolong  the  attentive  gaze  covertly  di- 
rected on  his  unknown  daughter  ? Was  there  reproach 
to  him  in  the  quiet  figure  and  the  mild  eyes  ? Had  he 
begun  to  feel  her  disregarded  claims,  and  did  they  touch 
him  home  at  last,  and  waken  him  to  some  sense  of  his 
cruel  injustice  ? 

There  are  yielding  moments  in  the  lives  of  the  stern- 
est and  harshest  men,  though  such  men  often  keep  their 
secret  well.  The  sight  of  her  in  her  beauty,  almost 
changed  into  a woman  without  his  knowledge,  may 
have  struck  out  some  such  moments  even  in  his  life  of 
pride.  Some  passing  thought  that  he  had  had  a happy 
home  within  his  reach — ^had  had  a household  spirit 
bending  at  his  feet*— had  overlooked  it  in  his  stiii- 
necked  sullen  arrogance,  and  wandered  away  and  lost 
himself — may  have  engendered  them.  Some  simple 
eloquence  distinctly  heard,  though  only  uttered  in  her 
eyes,  unconscious  that  he  read  them,  as  By  the  death- 
beds I have  tended,  by  the  childhood  I have  suffered, 
by  our  meeting  in  this  dreary  house  at  midnight,  by  the 
ery  wrung  from  me  in  the  anguish  of  my  heart,  0 
father,  turn  to  me  and  seek  a refuge  in  my  love  before 
it  is  too  late  ! ” may  have  arrested  them.  Meaner  and 
lower  thoughts,  as  that  his  dead  boy  was  now  superseded 
by  new  ties,  and  he  could  forgive  the  having  been  sup- 
planted in  his  affeotion,  may  have  occasioned  them. 
The  mere  association  of  her  as  an  ornament,  with  all 
the  ornament  and  pomp  about  him,  may  have  been  suffi- 
cient. But  as  he  looked,  he  softened  to  her,  more  and 
more.  As  he  looked,  she  became  blended  with  the 
child  he  had  loved,  and  he  could  hardly  separate  the 
two.  As  he  looked,  he  saw  her  for  an  instant  by  a 
clearer  and  a brighter  light,  not  bending  over  the  child’s 
pillow  as  his  rival — monstrous  thought  — but  as  the 
spirit  of  his  home,  and  in  the  action  tending  himself  no 
less,  as  he  sat  once  more  with  his  bowed-down  head 
upon  his  hand  at  the  foot  of  the  little  bed.  He  felt  in- 
clined to  speak  to  her,  and  call  her  to  him.  The  words 

Florence,  come  here  1”  were  rising  to  his  lips — slowly 
and  with  difficulty,  they  were  so  very  strange — when 
they  were  checked  and  stifled  by  a footstep  on  the  stair. 

It  was  his  wife’s.  She  had  exchanged  her  dinner  dress 
for  a loose  robe,  and  had  unbound  her  hair,  which  fell 
freely  about  her  neck.  But  this  was  not  the  change  in 
that  startled  him. 


BOMBEY  AND  SON. 


237 


Florence,  dear/’  slie  said,  I have  been  looking*  for 
Jhj'u  everywhere/’ 

As  she  sat  dov/n  by  the  side  of  Florence,  she  stooped 
md  kissed  her  hand.  He  hardly  knew  his  wife.  She 
was  so  changed.  It  was  not  merely  that  her  smile  was 
r3ew  to  him — though  that  he  had  never  seen  ; but  her 
■iBanner,  the  tone  of  her  voice,  the  light  of  her  eyes,  the 
interest  and  confidence,  and  winning  wish  to  please,  ex- 
pressed in  all — this  was  not  Edith. 

“ Softly,  dear  mama.  Papa  is  asleep.” 

It  was  Edith  now.  She  looked  towards  the  corner 
where  he  was,  and  he  knew  that  face  and  manner  very 
well. 

I scarcely  thought  you  could  be  here,  Florence.” 

Again,  how  altered  and  how  softened,  in  an  instant  ! 

*'1  left  here  early/’  pursued  Edith,  purposely  to  sit 
up-stairs  and  talk  with  you.  But,  going  to  your  room, 
I found  my  bird  was  flown,  and  I have  been  waiting 
there  ever  since,  expecting  its  return.” 

If  it  had  been  a bird,  indeed,  she  could  not  have  taken 
it  more  tenderly  and  gently  to  her  breast,  than  she  did 
Florence. 

“Come,  dear  !” 

“Papa  will  not  expect  to  find  me,  I suppose,  whoa 
he  wakes,”  hesitated  Florence. 

“ Do  you  think  he  will,  Florence?”  said  Edith,  look- 
ing full  upon  her. 

Florence  drooped  her  head,  and  rose,  and  put  up  her 
work-basket.  Edith  drew  her  hand  through  her  arm, 
and  they  went  out  of  the  room  like  sisters.  Her  very 
step  was  different  and  new  to  him,  Mr,  Dombey  thought, 
as  his  eyes  followed  her  to  the  door. 

He  sat  in  his  shadov/y  corner  so  long,  that  the  church 
clock  struck  the  hour  three  times  before  he  moved  that 
night.  All  that  while,  his  face  was  still  intent  upon 
the  spot  where  Florence  had  been  seated.  The  room 
grew  darker,  as  the  candle  waned  and  went  out ; ^ut  r. 
darkness  gathered  on  his  face,  exceeding  any  that  the 
night  could  cast,  and  rested  there. 

Florence  and  Edith,  seated  before  the  fire  in  the  re- 
mote room  where  little  Paul  had  died,  talked  together 
for  a long  time.  Diogenes,  who  was  of  the  party,  had 
at  first  objected  to  the  admission  of  Edith,  and,  even  in 
deference  to  his  mistress’s  wish,  had  only  permitted  it 
under  growling  protest.  But,  emerging  by  little  and 
little  from  the  ante-room,  whither  he  had  retired  in 
dudgeon,  he  soon  appeared  to  comprehend,  that  wdth 
the  most  amiable  intentions  he  had  made  one  of  those 
mistakes  which  will  occasionally  arise  in  the  best  regu- 
lated dogs’  minds  ; as  a friendly  apology  for  which  he 


238 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Stuck  kimself  up  on  end  between  the  two,  in  a very  hot 
place  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  sat  panting  at  it,  with  his 
tongue  out,  and  a most  imbecile  expression  of  counten- 
ance, listening  to  the  conversation. 

It  turned,  at  first,  on  Florence’s  books  and  favourite 
pursuits,  and  on  the  manner  in  which  she  had  beguiled 
the  interval  since  the  marriage.  The  last  theme  opened 
up  to  her  a subject  which  lay  very  near  her  heart,  and 
she  said,  with  the  tears  starting  to  her  eyes  : 

‘ * Oh,  mama  ! I have  had  a great  sorrow  since  that 
day.” 

“ You  a great  sorrow,  Florence  ! ” 

‘‘  Yes.  Poor  Walter  is  drowned.” 

Florence  spread  her  hands  before  her  face,  and  wept 
with  all  her  heart.  Many  as  were  the  secret  tears  which 
Walter’s  fate  had  cost  her,  they  fiowed  yet,  when  sh^ 
thought  or  spoke  of  him. 

But  tell  me,  dear,”  said  Edith,  soothing  her.  ‘‘Who 
was  Walter?  What  was  he  to  you?  ” 

“ He  was  my  brother,  mama.  After  dear  Paul  died, 
we  said  we  would  be  brother  and  sister.  I had  known 
him  a long  time — from  a little  child.  He  knew  Paul, 
who  liked  him  very  much  ; Paul  said  almost  at  the  last 
‘ Take  care  of  Walter,  dear  papa  I I was  fond  of  him  !’ 
Walter  had  been  brought  in  to  see  him,  and  was  there 
then — in  this  room.” 

“ And  did  he  take  care  of  Walter  ? ” inquired  Edith, 
sternly. 

“Papa?  He  appointed  him  to  go  abroad.  He  was 
drowned  in  shipwreck  on  his  voyage,  ” said  Florence 
sobbing. 

“ Does  he  know  that  he  is  dead  ? ” asked  Edith. 

“ I cannot  tell,  mama.  I have  no  means  of  knowing. 
Dear  mama  ! ” cried  Florence,  clinging  to  her  as  for 
help,  and  hiding  her  face  upon  her  bosom,  “ Iknowtha^ 
you  have  seen — ” 

“ Stay  ! Stop,  Florence,”  Edith  turned  so  pale,  and 
spoke  so  earnestly,  that  Florence  did  not  need  her  res- 
training hand  upon  her  lips.  “ Tell  me  all  about  Wal. 
ter  first;  let  me  understand  this  history  all  through.” 

Florence  related  it,  and  everything  belonging  to  it, 
even  down  to  the  friendship  of  Mr.  Toots,  of  whom  shs 
could  hardly  speak  in  her  distress  without  a tearful 
smile,  although  she  was  deeply  grateful  to  him.  When 
she  had  concluded  her  account,  to  the  whole  of  which 
Edith,  holding  her  hand,  listened  with  close  attention,, 
and  when  a silence  had  succeeded,  Edith  said  : 

“ What  is  it  that  you  know  I have  seea^  Florence?'* 
That  I am  not,”  said  Florence,  with  the  same  mute 
appeal  and  the  same  quick  concealment  of  her  face  as 
(before,  “ that  I am  not  a favourite  child,  mama.  I never 


X)OMBEY  AND  SON. 


239 


iiaJve  been.  I have  never  known  Jiow  to  be.  I liave 
missed  the  way,  and  had  no  one  to  show  it  to  me.  Oh, 
let  me  learn  from  you  how  to  become  dearer  to  papa. 
Teach  me  ! you,  who  can  so  well  ! and  clinging  closer 
to  her,  with  some  broken  fervent  words  of  gratitude  and 
endearment,  Florence,  relieved  of  her  sad  secret,  wept 
long,  but  not  as  painfully  as  of  yore,  within  the  encircle, 
ing  arms  of  her  new  mother. 

Pale,  even  to  her  lips,  and  with  a face  that  strove  for 
composure  until  its  proud  beauty  was  fixed  as  death, 
Edith  looked  down  upon  the  weeping  girl,  and  once  kiss- 
ed her.  Then  gradually  disengaging  herself,  and  put- 
ting Florence  away,  she  said,  stately  and  q uiet,  as  a 
marble  image,  and  in  a voice  that  deepened  as  she  spoke 
but  had  no  other  token  of  emotion  in  it  : 

Florence,  you  do  not  know  me  ! Heaven  forbid  that 
you  should  learn  from  me 

‘‘Not  learn  from  you?”  repeated  Florence  in  sur- 
prise. 

“ That  I should  teach  you  how  to  love,  or  be  loved. 
Heaven  forbid  ! ” said  Edith.  “ If  you  could  teach  me, 
that  were  better  ; but  it  is  too  late.  You  are  dear  to  me 
Florence.  I did  not  think  that  anything  could  ever  be 
so  dear  to  me,  as  you  are  in  this  little  time.” 

She  saw  that  Florence  would  have  spoken  here,  sq 
checked  her  with  her  hand,  and  went  on. 

“ I will  be  your  true  friend  always.  I will  cherish 
you  as  much,  if  not  as  well  as  any  one  in  this  world  could. 
You  may  trust  in  me — I know  it  and  I say  it,  dear — - 
with  the  whole  confidence  even  of  your  pure  heart. 
There  are  hosts  of  women  whom  he  might  have  married, 
better  and  truer  in  all  other  respects  than  I am,  Florence; 
but  there  is  not  one  who  could  come  here,  his  wife, 
whose  heart  could  beat  with  greater  truth  to  you  than 
mine  does.” 

“ I know  it,  dear  mama!”  cried  Florence.  “Prom 
that  first  most  happy  day  I have  known  it.^’ 

“Most  happy  day!”  Edith  seemed  to  repeat  the 
words  involuntarily,  and  went  on.  “ Though  the  merit 
Ss  not  mine,  for  I thought  little  of  you  until  I saw  you, 
let  the  undeserved  reward  be  mine  in  your  trust  and 
love.  And  in  this — in  this,  Florence  ; on  the  first  night 
of  my  taking  up  my  abode  here  ; I am  led  on  as  it  is 
best  I should  be,  to  say  it  for  the  first  and  last  time.” 

Florence,  without  knowing  why,  felt  almost  afraid  to 
hear  her  proceed,  but  kept  her  eyes  rivet  ted  on  the 
beautiful  face  so  fixed  upon  her  own. 

“ Never  seek  to  find  in  me,”  said  Edith,  laying  her 
hand  upon  her  breast,  “ what  is  not  here.  Never  if  you 
can  help  it,  Florence,  fall  olf  from  me  because  it  is  not 
here.  Little  by  little  you  will  know  me  better,  and  the 


240 


V^ORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


iime  will  come  wlien  you  will  know  me,  as  I know  my- 
self. Then,  be  as  lenient  to  me  as  you  can,  and  do  not 
turn  to  bitterness  the  only  sweet  remembrance  I shall 
have.  ” 

The  tears  that  were  visible  in  her  eyes  as  she  kept 
them  fixed  on  Florence,  showed  that  the  composed  face 
was  but  as  a handsome  mask  ; but  she  preserved  it,  and 
continued  : 

‘‘  I have  seen  what  you  say,  and  know  how  true  it  is. 
But  believe  me — you  will  soon,  if  you  cannot  now — 
there  is  no  one  on  this  earth  less  qualified  to  set  it  right 
or  help  you,  Florence,  than  I.  Never  ask  me  why,  or 
speak  to  me  about  it  or  of  my  husband,  more.  There 
should  be,  so  far,  a division,  and  a silence  between  us 
two,  like  the  grave  itself.^' 

She  sat  for  some  time  silent  ; Florence  scarcely  ven- 
turing to  lareathe  meanwhile,  as  dim  and  imperfect 
shadows  of  the  truth,  and  all  its  daily  consequences, 
chased  each  other  through  her  terrified,  yet  incredulous 
imagination.  Almost  as  soon  as  she  had  ceased  to  speak, 
Edith’s  face  began  to  subside  from  its  set  composure  to 
that  quieter  and  more  relenting  aspect,  which  it  usually 
wore  when  she  and  Florence  were  alone  together.  She 
shaded  it,  after  this  change,  with  her  hands  ; and  when 
she  arose,  and  with  an  affectionate  embrace  bade  Flor- 
ence good  night,  went  quickly,  and  without  looking 
round. 

But,  when  Florence  was  in  bed,  and  the  room  was 
dark  except  for  the  glow  of  the  fire,  Edith  returned,  and 
saying  that  she  could  not  sleep,  and  that  her  dressing 
room  was  lonely,  drew  a chair  upon  the  hearth,  and 
watched  the  embers  as  they  died  away.  Florencs 
watched  them  too  from  her  bed,  until  the^L  and  the  no- 
ble figure  before  them,  crowned  with  its  flowing  hair, 
and  in  its  thoughtful  eyes  reflecting  back  their  light,  be- 
came confused  and  indistinct,  and  finally  v/ere  lost  in 
slumber. 

In  her  sleep,  however,  Florence  could  not  lose  an 
defined  impression  of  what  had  so  recently  passed,  16 
formed  the  subject  of  her  dreams,  and  haunted  her^ 
now  in  one  shape,  now'  in  another  ; but  always  oppres- 
sively ; and  with  a sense  of  fear.  She  dreamed  of  seek- 
ing her  father  in  wildernesses,  of  following  his  track 
up  fearful  heights,  and  down  into  deep  mines  and  cav- 
erns ; of  being  charged  with  something  that  w^ould  re- 
lease him  from  extraordinary  suffering — she  knew  not 
w'hat,  or  why — yet  never  being  able  to  attain  the  goal 
and  set  him  free.  Then  she  saw  him  dead,  upon  that 
very  bed,  and  in  that  very  room,  and  knew  that  he  had 
never  loved  her  to  the  last,  and  fell  upon  his  cold  breast, 
passionately  w^eeping.  Theft  a prospect  opened,  and  a 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


241 


river  flowecl,  and  a pJaintive  voice  slie  knew,  cried, 
is  running  on,  Floy  ! It  has  never  stopped  ! You  are 
moving  with  it  ! And  she  saw  him  at  a distance 
stretching  out  his  arms  towards  her,  v»^hile  a figure  such 
as  Walter’s  used  to  be,  stood  near  him,  awfully  serene 
and  still.  In  every  vision,  Edith  came  and  went,  some- 
times to  her  joy,  sometimes  to  her  sorrow,  until  they 
were  alone  upon  the  brink  of  a dark  grave,  and  Edith 
pointing  down,  she  looked  and  saw — w^hat ! — another 
Edith  lying  at  the  bottom. 

In  the  terror  of  this  dream,  she  cried  out,  and  awoke 
she  thought.  A soft  voice  seemed  to  whisper  in  her  ear, 

Florence,  dear  Florence,  it  is  nothing  but  a dream  I ” 
and  stretching  out  her  arms,  she  returned  the  caress  of 
her  new  mama,  who  then  went  out  at  the  door  in  th© 
light  of  the  gray  morning.  In  a moment,  Florence  sat 
up  wondering  v/hether  this  had  really  taken  place  of 
not  ; but  she  was  only  certain  that  it  was  gray  morning 
indeed,  and  that  the  blackened  ashes  of  the  fire  w'ere  on 
the  hearth,  and  that  she  was  alone. 

So  passed  the  night  on  which  the  happy  pair  came 
home. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

Housewarming, 

Many  succeeding  days  passed  in  like  manner  ; except 
that  there  were  numerous  visits  received  and  paid,  and 
that  Mrs.  Skewton  held  little  levees  in  her  own  apart- 
ments at  which  Major  Bagstock  was  a frequent  attend- 
ant, and  that  Florence  encountered  no  second  look  from 
her  father,  although  she  saw  him  every  day.  Xor  had 
she  much  communication  in  words,  with  her  new  mama., 
who  was  imperious  and  proud  to  all  the  house  but  her — 
Florence  could  not  but  observe  that — and  who,  although 
she  always  sent  for  her  or  went  to  her  when  she  came 
home  from  visiting,  and  would  always  go  into  her  room 
at  night,  before  retiring  to  rest,  however  late  the  hour, 
and  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  being  with  her,  was 
often  her  silent  and  thoughtful  companion  for  a long 
time  together. 

Florence,  who  had  hoped  for  so  much  from  this  mar- 
riage, could  not  help  sometimes  comparing  the  bright 
house  vrith  the  faded  dreary  place  out  of  which  it  had 
risen,  and  wondering  when,  in  any  shape,  it  would  begin 
to  be  a home  ; for  that  it  was  no  home  then,  for  any 
one,  though  everything  went  on  luxuriously  and  regu- 
larly, she  had  always  a secret  misgiving.  Many  an  hour 
of  sorrov/ful  refi.ection  by  day  and  night,  and  many  ^ 
VoL.  12  — K 


242 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tear  of  blighted  hope,  Florence  bestowed  upon  the  as- 
surance her  new  mama  had  given  her  so  strongly,  that 
there  was  no  one  on  the  earth  more  powerless  than  herself 
to  teach  her  how  to  win  her  father’s  heart.  And  soon 
Florence  began  to  think — resolved  to  think  would  be  the 
truer  phrase — that  as  no  one  knew  so  well,  how  hopeless 
of  being  subdued  or  changed  her  father’s  coldness  to  her 
was,  so  she  had  given  her  this  warning,  and  forbidden 
the  subject  in  very  compassion.  Unselfish  here,  as  in 
her  every  act  and  fancy,  Florenqe  preferred  to  bear  the 
pain  of  this  new  wound,  rather  than  encourage  any  faint 
foreshado wings  of  the  truth  as  it  concerned  her  father ; 
tender  of  him,  even  in  her  wandering  thoughts.  As  for 
his  home  she  hoped  it  would  become  a better  one,  when 
its  state  of  novelty  and  transition  should  be  over  ; and 
for  herself,  thought  little,  and  lamented  less. 

If  none  of  the  new  family  were  particularly  at  home 
in  private,  it  was  resolved  that  Mrs.  Dombey  at  least 
should  be  at  home  in  public,  without  delay.  A series  of 
entertainments  in  celebration  of  the  late  nuptials,  and 
in  cultivation  of  society,  were  arranged  chiefly  by  Mr. 
Dombey  and  Mrs.  Skewton  ; and  it  was  settled  that  the 
festive  proceedings  should  commence  by  Mrs.  Dombey’s 
being  at  home  upon  a certain  evening,  and  by  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Dombey’s  requesting  the  honour  of  the  company  of 
a great  many  incongruous  people  to  dinner  on  the  same 
day. 

Accordingly  Mr.  Dombey  produced  a list  of  sundry 
eastern  magnates  who  were  to  be  bidden  to  this  feast  on 
his  behalf,  to  which  Mrs.  Skewton,  acting  for  her  dearest 
child,  who  was  haughtily  careless  on  thqi  subject,  sub- 
joined a western  list,  comprising  Cousin  Feenix,  not  yet 
returned  to  Baden  Baden,  greatly  to  the  detriment  of 
his  personal  estate  ; and  a variety  of  moths  of  various 
degrees  and  ages,  who  had,  at  various  times,  fluttered 
round  the  light  of  her  fair  daughter,  or  herself,  without 
any  lasting  injury  to  their  wings.  Florence  was  enrolled 
as  a member  of  the  dinner-party,  by  Edith’s  command — 
elicited  by  a moment’s  doubt  and  hesitation  on  the  part 
of  Mrs.  Skewton  ; and  Florence,  with  a wondering  heart, 
and  with  a quick  instinctive  sense  of  everything  that 
grated  on  her  father  in  the  least,  took  her  silent  share 
in  the  proceedings  of  the  day. 

The  proceedings  commenced  by  Mr.  Dombey,  in  a 
cravat  of  extraordinary  height  and  stiflness,  walking 
restlessly  about  the  drawing-room  until  the  hour  ap- 
pointed for  dinner  ; punctual  to  which,  an  East  India 
Director,  of  immense  wealth,  in  a waistcoat  apparently 
constructed  in  serviceable  deal  by  some  plain  carpenter, 
but  really  engendered  in  the  tailor’s  art,  and  composed 
of  the  material  called  nankeen,  arrived,  and  was  received 


DOMBEY  AND  SON 


243 


by  Mr.  Dombey  alone.  The  next  stage  of  the  proceed- 
ings was  Mr.  Dombey  sending  his  compliments  to  Mrs. 
Dombey,  with  a correct  statement  of  the  time  ; and  the 
next,  the  East  India  Director’s  falling  prostrate,  in  a 
conversational  point  of  view,  and  as  Mr.  Dombey  was 
not  the  man  to  pick  him  np,  staring  at  the  fire  until 
rescue  appeared  in  the  person  of  Mrs.  Skewton  ; whom 
the  Director,  as  a pleasant  start  in  life  for  the  evening, 
mistook  for  Mrs.  Dombey,  and  greeted  with  enthusiasm. 

The  next  arrival  was  a Bank  Director,  reputed  to  be 
able  to  buy  up  anything — human  Nature  generally,  if 
he  should  take  it  in  his  head  to  influence  the  money 
market  in  that  direction — but  who  was  a wonderfully 
modest-spoken  man,  almost  boastfully  so,  and  mentioned 
his  little  place  ” at  Kingston-upon-Thames,  and  its 
just  being  barely  equal  to  giving  Dombey  a bed  and  a 
chop,  if  he  would  come  and  visit  it.  Ladies,  he  said,  it 
was  not  for  a man  who  lived  in  his  quiet  way  to  take 
upon  himself  to  invite — but  if  Mrs.  Skewton  and  her 
daughter,  Mrs.  Dombey,  should  ever  find  themselves  in 
that  direction,  and  would  do  him  the  honour  to  look  at  a 
little  bit  of  a shrubbery  they  would  find  there,  and  a poor 
little  flower-bed  or  so,  and  a humble  apology  for  a pinery, 
and  two  or  three  little  attempts  of  that  sort  without 
any  pretension,  they  would  distinguish  him  very  much. 
Carrying  out  his  character,  this  gentleman  was  very 
plainly  dressed,  in  a wisp  of  cambric  for  a neckcloth, 
big  shoes,  a coat  that  was  too  loose  for  him,  and  a pair 
of  trousers  that  were  too  spare  ; and  mention  being  made 
of  the  Opera  by  Mrs.  Skewton,  he  said  he  very  seldom 
went  there,  for  he  couldn’t  aflord  it.  It  seemed  greatly 
to  delight  and  exhilarate  him  to  say  so  ; and  he  beamed 
on  his  audience  afterwards,  with  his  hands  in  his  pock- 
ets, and  excessive  satisfaction  twinkling  in  his  eyes. 

Now  Mrs.  Dombey  appeared,  beautiful  and  proud,  and 
as  disdainful  and  defiant  of  them  all  as  if  the  bridal 
v/reath  upon  her  head  had  been  a garland  of  steel  spikes 
put  on  to  force  concession  from  her  which  she  would  die 
Booner  than  yield.  With  her  was  Florence.  When 
they  entered  together,  the  shadow  of  the  night  of  the 
return  again  darkened  Mr.  Dombey’s  face.  But  unob- 
served : for  Florence  did  not  venture  to  raise  her  eyes 
to  his,  and  Edith’s  indifference  was  too  supreme  to  take 
the  least  heed  of  him. 

The  arrivals  quickly  became  numerous.  More  direc- 
tors, chairmen  of  public  companies,  elderly  ladies  carry- 
ing burdens  on  their  heads  for  full  dress,  Cousin  Feenix, 
Major  Bagstock,  friends  of  Mrs.  Skewton,  with  the  same 
bright  bloom  on  their  complexion,  and  very  precious 
necklaces  on  very  withered  necks.  Among  these,  a 
young  lady  of  sixty -five,  remarkably  coolly  dressed  as  to 


244 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


her  back  and  shoulders,  who  spoke  with  an  engaging 
lisp,  and  whose  eyelids  wouldn’t  keep  up  well,  without 
a great  deal  of  trouble  on  her  part,  and  whose  manners 
had  that  indefinable  charm  which  so  frequently  attaches 
to  the  giddiness  of  youth.  As  the  greater  part  of  Mr. 
Dombey’s  list  were  disposed  to  be  taciturn,  and  the 
greater  part  of  Mrs.  Dombey’s  list  were  disposed  to  be 
talkative,  and  there  was  no  sympathy  between  them, 
Mrs.  Dombey’s  list,  by  magnetic  agreement,  entered  into 
a bond  of  union  against  Mr.  Dombey’s  list,  who,  wander- 
ing about  the  rooms  in  a desolate  manner,  or  seeking 
refuge  in  corners,  entangled  themselves  with  company 
coming  in,  and  became  barricaded  behind  sofas,  and  had 
doors  opened  smartly  from  without  against  their  heads, 
and  underwent  every  sort  of  discomfiture. 

When  dinner  was  announced,  Mr.  Dombey  took  down 
an  old  lady  like  a crimson  velvet  pincushion  stuffed  with 
bank  notes,  who  might  have  been  the  identical  old  lady 
of  Threadneedl e-street,  she  was  so  rich,  and  looked  so 
unaccommodating  ; Cousin  Feenix  took  down  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey ; Major  Bagstock  took  down  Mrs.  Skewton ; the 
young  thing  with  the  shoulders  was  bestow'ed,  as  an  ex- 
tinguisher, upon  the  East  India  Director  ; and  the  re- 
maining ladies  were  left  on  view  in  the  drawing-room  by 
the  remaining  gentlemen,  until  a forlorn  hope  volun- 
teered to  conduct  them  do wm -stairs,  and  those  brave 
spirits  with  their  captives  blocked  up  the  dining-room 
door,  shutting  out  seven  mild  men  in  the  stony-hearted 
hall.  When  all  the  rest  were  got  in  and  were  seated, 
one  of  these  mild  men  still  appeared,  in  smiling  confu- 
sion, totally  destitute,  and  unprovided  for,  and,  escorted 
bj^  the  butler,  made  the  complete  circuit  of  the  table 
twice  before  his  chair  could  be  found,  wdiich  it  finally 
was,  on  Mrs.  Dombey ’s  left  hand  ; after  which  the  mild 
man  never  held  up  his  head  again. 

Now,  the  spacious  dining-room,  wdth  the  company 
seated  round  the  glittering  table,  busy  with  their  glit- 
tering spoons,  and  knives  and  forks,  and  plates,  might 
have  been  taken  for  a growm  up  exposition  of  Tom  Tid- 
dler’s ground,  where  children  pick  up  gold  and  silver. 
Mr.  Dombey,  as  Tiddler,  looked  his  character  to  admira- 
tion ; and  tlie  long  plateau  of  precious  metal  frosted, 
separating  him  from  Mrs.  Dombey,  whereon  frosted  Cu- 
pids offered  scentless  flo^vers  to  each  of  them,  was  alle- 
gorical to  see. 

Cousin  Feenix  was  in  great  force,  and  looked  astonish- 
ingly young.  But  he  was  sometimes  thoughtless  in  his 
good  humour~his  memory  occasionally  wandering  like 
his  legs — and  on  this  occasion  he  caused  the  company  to 
shudder.  It  happened  thus.  The  young  lady  with  the 
back,  who  regarded  Cousin  Feenix  with  sentiments  of 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


245 


tenderness,  Iiad  entrapped  the  East  India  Director  into 
leading  her  to  the  chair  next  him  ; in  return  for  which 
good  office,  she  immediatel}^  abandoned  the  Director, 
who,  being  shaded  on  the  other  side  by  a gloomy  black 
velvet  hat  surmounting  a bony  and  speechless  female 
with  a fan,  yielded  to  a depression  of  spirits  and  with- 
drew into  himself.  Cousin  Feenix  and  the  young  lady 
were  very  lively  and  humorous,  and  the  young  lady 
laughed  so  much  at  something  Cousin  Feenix  related  to 
her,  that  Major  Bagstock  begged  leave  to  inquire  on  be* 
half  of  Mrs.  Skewton  (they  were  sitting  opposite,  a littlo 
lower  down),  whether  that  might  not  be  considered  pub- 
lic property. 

“Why,  upon  my  life, said  Cousin  Feenix,  “there’s 
nothing  in  it ; it  really  is  not  worth  repeating  : in  point 
of  fact,  it’s  merely  an  anecdote  of  Jack  Adams.  1 dare 
say  my ‘friend  Dombey;”  for  the  general  attention  was 
concentrated  on  Cousin  Feenix;  “may  remember  Jack 
Adams,  Jack  Adams,  not  Joe ; that  was  his  brother^ 
Jack — little  Jack-man  with  a cast  in  his  eye,  and  a 
slight  impediment  in  his  speech — man  who  sat  for  some- 
oody’s  borough.  We  used  to  call  him  in  my  parliament- 
ary time  W'.  P.  Adams,  in  consequence  of  his  being 
Warming  Pan  for  a young  fellow  who  was  in  his  minor- 
ity. Perhaps  my  friend  Dombey  may  have  known  the 
man  ? ” 

Mr.  Dombey,  who  was  as  likely  to  have  known  Guy 
Fawkes,  replied  in  the  negative.  But  one  of  the  seven 
mild  men  unexpectedly  leaped  into  distinction,  by  saying 
he  had  known  him,  and  adding — “always  wore  Hessian 
boots  ! ” 

“Exactly,”  said  Cousin  Feenix,  bending  forward  to 
see  the  mild  man,  and  smile  encouragement  at  him  down 
the  table,  “ That  was  Jack.  Joe  wore — ” 

“ Tops  1 ” cried  the  mild  man,  rising  in  public  estima- 
tion every  instant. 

“ Of  course,”  said  Cousin  Feenix,  “you  were  intimate 
with  ’em?’’ 

“I  knew  them  both,”  said  the  mild  man.  With 
whom  Mr.  Dombey  immediately  took  wine. 

“Devilish  good  fellow.  Jack ?”  said  Cousin  Feenix, 
again  bending  forward,  and  smiling. 

“Excellent,”  returned  the  mild  man,  becoming  bold 
on  his  success.  “ One  of  the  best  fellows  I ever  knew.” 

“ No  doubt  you  have  heard  the  story  ? ” said  Cousin 
Feenix. 

“ I shall  know,”  replied  the  bold  mild  man,  “ when  I 
have  heard  your  Ludship  tell  it.”  With  that,  he  leaned 
back  in  his  chair  and  smiled  at  the  ceiling,  as  knowing 
it  by  heart,  and  being  already  tickled. 

“ In  point  of  fact,  it’s  nothing  of  a story  in  itself,”  said 


246 


WOKKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Cousin  Foenix,  addressing  the  table  with  a smile,  and  a 
g&y  shake  of  his  head,  '‘and  not  worth  a word  of  pre- 
face. But  it's  illustrative  of  the  neatness  of  Jack’s  hu- 
mour. The  fact  is,  that  Jack  was  invited  down  to  a 
marriage — which  I think  took  place  in  Barkshire  ? ” 

“Shropshire,”  said  the  bold  mild  man,  finding  him- 
self appealed  to. 

“Was  it?  well ! In  point  of  fact  it  might  have  been 
in  any  shire,”  said  Cousin  Feenix.  “So,  my  friend  be- 
ing invited  down  to  this  marriage  in  Anyshire,”  with  a 
pleasant  sense  of  the  readiness  of  this  joke,  “goes. 
Just  as  some  of  us  having  had  the  honour  of  being  in- 
vited to  the  marriage  of  my  lovely  and  accomplished 
relative  with  my  friend  Dombey,  didn’t  require  to  be 
asked  tv^rice,  and  were  devilish  glad  to  be  present  on  so 
interesting  an  occaision. — Goes — Jack  goes.  Now,  this 
marriage  was,  in  point  of  fact,  the  marriage  of  an  un- 
commonly fine  girl  with  a man  for  whom  she  didn’t  care 
a button,  but  whom  she  accepted  on  account  of  his  prop- 
erty, which  was  immense.  When  Jack  returned  to 
town,  after  the  nuptials,  a man  he  knew,  meeting  him 
in  the  lobby  of  the  House  of  Commons,  says,  ‘Well, 
Jack,  how  are  the  ill-matched  couple?’  ‘ Ill-matched,’ 
said  J ack.  ‘ Not  at  all.  It’s  a perfectly  fair  and  equal 
transaction.  S^e  is  regularly  bought,  and  you  may  take 
your  oath  /le  is  as  regularly  sold  ! ’ ” 

In  his  full  enjoyment  of  this  culminating  point  of  his 
story  the  shudder,  which  had  gone  all  round  the  table 
lilie  an  electric  spark,  struck  Cousin  Feenix,  and  he 
stopped.  Not  a smile  occasioned  by  the  only  general 
topic  of  conversation  broached  that  day,  appeared  on  any 
face.  A profound  silence  ensued  ; and  the  wretched 
mild  man,  who  had  been  as  innocent  of  any  real  fore- 
knowledge of  the  story  as  the  child  unborn,  had  the  ex- 
quisite misery  of  reading  in  every  eye  that  he  was  re- 
garded as  the  prime  mover  of  the  mischief. 

Mr.  Dombey’s  face  was  not  a changeful  one,  and  be- 
ing cast  in  its  mould  of  state  that  day,  showed  little 
ether  apprehension  of  the  story,  if  any,  than  that  which 
lie  expressed  when  he  said  solemnly,  amidst  the  silence, 
that  it  was  “Very  good,”  There  was  a rapid  glance 
from  Edith  towards  Florence,  but  otherwise  she  re- 
mained, externally,  impassive  and  unconscious. 

Through  the  various  stages  of  rich  meats  and  wines, 
continual  gold  and  silver,  dainties  of  earth,  air,  fire,  and 
water,  heaped-up  fruits,  and  that  unnecessary  article  in 
Mr.  Dombey’s  banquets — ice — the  dinner  slowly  made  its 
way  ; the  later  stages  being  achieved  to  the  sonorous 
music  of  incessant  double  knocks,  announcing  the  arri- 
val of  visitors,  whose  portion  of  the  feast  was  limited  to 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


247 


the  smell  thereof.  When  Mrs.  Dombey  rose,  it  was  a 
sight  to  see  her  lord,  with  stiff  throat,  and  erect  head, 
hold  the  door  open  for  the  withdrawal  of  the  ladies  ; 
and  to  see  how  she  swept  past  him  with  his  daughter  on 
her  arm. 

Mr.  Domhey  was  a grave  sight,  behind  the  decanters, 
in  a state  of  dignity  ; and  the  East  India  Director  was  a 
forlorn  sight  near  the  unoccupied  end  of  the  table,  in  a 
state  of  solitude  ; and  the  major  was  a military  sight, 
relating  stories  of  the  Duke  of  York  to  six  of  the  seven 
mild  men  (the  ambitious  one  was  utterly  quenched) ; 
and  the  Bank  Director  was  a lowly  sight,  making  a plan 
of  his  little  attempt  at  a pinery,  with  dessert- knives,  for 
a group  of  admirers  ; and  Cousin  Feenix  was  a thought- 
ful sight,  as  he  smoothed  his  long  wristbands  and 
stealthily  adjusted  his  wig.  But  all  these  sights  were  of 
short  duration,  being  speedily  broken  up  by  coffee,  and 
the  desertion  of  the  room. 

There  was  a throng  in  the  state-rooms  up-stairs,  in- 
creasing every  minute  ; but  still  Mr.  Dombey^s  list  of 
visitors  appeared  to  have  some  native  impossibility  of 
amalgamation  with  Mrs.  Dombey’s  list,  and  no  one 
could  have  doubted  which  was  which.  The  single  ex- 
ception to  this  rule  perhaps  v,^as  Mr.  Carker,  who  now 
smiled  among  the  company,  and  who,  as  he  stood  in  the 
circle  that  was  gathered  about  Mrs.  Dombey — watchful 
of  her,  of  them,  his  chief,  Cleopatra,  and  the  major, 
Florence,  and  everything  around — appeared  at  ease  with 
both  divisions  of  guests,  and  not  marked  as  exclusively 
belonging  to  either. 

Florence  had  a dread  of  him,  which  made  his  presence 
in  the  room  a nightmare  to  her.  She  could  not  avoid  the 
recollection  of  it,  for  her  eyes  were  drawm  towards  him 
every  now  and  then,  by  an  attraction  of  dislike  and  dis- 
trust that  she  could  not  resist.  Yet  her  thoughts  were 
busy  with  other  things  ; for  as  she  sat  apart — not  unad- 
mired or  unsought,  but  in  the  gentleness  of  her  quiet  spirit 
—she  felt  how  little  part  her  father  had  in  what  was 
going  on,  and  saw,  with  pain,  how  ill  at  ease  he  seemed 
to  be,  and  how  little  regarded  he  was  as  he  lingered 
about  near  the  door,  for  those  visitors  whom  he  wished 
to  distinguish  with  particular  attention,  and  took  them 
up  to  introduce  them  to  his  wife,  who  received  them  with 
proud  coldness,  but  showed  no  interest  or  wish  to  please, 
and  never,  after  the  bare  ceremony  of  reception,  in  con. 
sultation  of  his  wishes,  or  in  welcome  of  his  friends, 
opened  her  lips.  It  was  not  the  less  perplexing  or  pain- 
ful to  Florence,  that  she  w’^ho  acted  thus,  treated  her  so 
kindly,  and  with  such  loving  consideration,  that  it  almost 
seemed  an  ungrateful  return  on  her  part  even  to  know  of 
what  was  passing  before  her  eyes. 


248 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Happy  Florence  would  liave  been,  might  she  have  ven« 
tnred  to  bear  her  father  company,  by  so  much  as  a look  ; 
and  happy  Florence  was,  in  little  suspecting  the  main 
cause  of  his  uneasiness.  But  afraid  of  seeming  to  know 
that  he  was  placed  at  any  disadvantage,  lest  he  should  be 
resentful  of  that  knowledge  ; and  divided  between  her 
impulse  towards  him,  and  her  grateful  affection  for 
Edith  ; she  scarcely  dared  to  raise  her  eyes  towards 
either.  Anxious  and  unhappy  for  them  both,  the  thought 
stole  on  her  through  the  crowd,  that  it  might  have  been 
better  for  them  if  this  noise  of  tongues  and  tread  of  feet 
had  never  come  there, — if  the  old  dulness  and  decay  had 
never  been  replaced  by  novelty  and  splendour, — if  the 
neglected  child  had  found  no  friend  in  Edith,  but  had 
lived  her  solitary  life,  unpitied  and  forgotten. 

Mrs.  Chick  had  some  such  thoughts  too,  but  they  were 
not  so  quietly  developed  in  her  mind.  This  good  matron 
had  been  outraged  in  the  first  instance  by  not  receiving 
an  invitation  to  dinner.  That  blow  partially  recovered, 
she  had  gone  to  a vast  expense  to  make  such  a figure  be- 
fore Mrs.  Dombey  at  home,  as  should  dazzle  the  senses 
of  that  lady,  and  heap  mortification,  mountains  high,  oa 
the  head  of  Mrs.  Skew  ton. 

“ But  I am  made,'’  said  Mrs.  Chick  to  Mr.  Chick,  ‘‘  of 
no  more  account  than  Florence  ! Who  takes  the  small- 
est notice  of  me  ? No  one  ! " 

“No  one,  my  dear,"  assented  Mr  Chick,  who  was  seated 
by  the  side  of  Mrs.  Chick  against  the  wall,  and  could 
gonsole  himself,  even  there,  by  softly  whistling. 

“ Does  it  at  all  appear  as  if  I was  wanted  here  ex 
claimed  Mrs.  Chick,  with  hashing  eyes. 

“ No,  my  dear,  I don't  think  it  does,"  said  Mr. 
Chick. 

“ Paul's  mad  ! " said  Mrs.  Chick. 

Mr.  Chick  whistled. 

“ Unless  you  are  a monster,  which  I sometimes  think 
you  are,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  with  candour,  “ don’t  sit  there 
humming  tunes.  How  any  one  with  the  most  distant 
feelings  of  a man,  can  see  that  mother-in-law  of  Paul's, 
dressed  as  she  is,  going  on  like  that,  with  Major  Bag- 
3tock,  for  whom,  among  other  precious  things,  we  are  in- 
debted to  your  Lucretia  Tox — ” 

“ My  Lucretia  Tox,  my  dear  ! ” said  Mr.  Chick  as- 
tounded. 

“ Yes,"  retorted  Mrs.  Chick,  with  great  severity,  “ your 
Lucretia  Tox — 1 say  how  anybody  can  see  that  mother- 
in-law  of  Paul's,  and  that  haughty  wife  of  Paul's,  and 
those  indecent  old  frights  with  their  backs  and  shoulders, 
and  in  short  this  at  home  generally,  and  can  hum — ,”  on 
which  word  Mrs.  Chick  laid  a scornful  emphasis  that 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


m 

made  Mr.  Chick  start,  I thank  Heaven,  a mystery 
bo  me  I ’’ 

Mr.  Chick  screwed  his  month  into  a form  irreconcile. 
able  with  humming  or  whistling,  and  looked  very  con. 
templative. 

But  I hope  I know  what  is  due  to  myself,’’  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  swelling  with  indignation,  though  Paul  has  for- 
gotten what  is  due  to  me.  I am  not  going  to  sit  here,  a 
member  of  this  family,  to  be  taken  no  notice  of.  I am 
not  the  dirt  under  Mrs.  Dombey’s  feet,  yet — not  quite 
yet,”  said  Mrs.  Chick,  as  if  she  expected  to  become  so, 
about  the  day  after  to-morrow.  “ And  I shall  go.  I will 
not  say  (whatever  I may  think)  that  this  affair  has  been 
got  up  solely  to  degrade  and  insult  me.  I shall  merely 
go.  I shall  not  be  missed  ! ” 

Mrs.  Chick  rose  erect  with  these  words,  and  took  the 
arm  of  Mr.  Chick,  who  escorted  her  from  the  room,  after 
half  an  hour’s  shady  sojourn  there.  And  it  is  due  to  her 
penetration  to  observe  that  she  certainly  was  not  missed 
at  all. 

But  she  was  not  the  only  indignant  guest ; for  Mr.  Dom- 
bey’s list  (still  constantly  in  difficulties)  were,  as  a body, 
indignant  with  Mrs.  Dombey’s  list,  for  looking  at  them 
through  eye-glasses,  and  audibly  wondering  who  all  those 
people  were  ‘ while  Mrs.  Dombey’s  list  complained  of 
weariness,  and  the  young  thing  with  the  shoulders,  de- 
prived of  the  attentions  of  that  gay  youth  Cousin  Feenix 
(who  went  away  from  the  dinner-table),  confidentially 
alleged  to  thirty  or  forty  friends  that  she  was  bored  to 
death.  All  the  old  ladies  with  the  burdens  on  their  heads, 
ffiad  greater  or  less  cause  of  complaint  against  Mrs.  Dorn- 
bey ; and  the  directors  and  chairman  coincided  in  think- 
ing that  if  Dombey  must  marry,  he  had  better  have  mar- 
ried somebody  nearer  his  own  age,  not  quite  so  handsome, 
and  a little  better  off.  The  general  opiniv^n  among  this 
class  of  gentlemen  was,  that  it  was  a weak  thing  in  Dom- 
bey, and  he’d  live  to  repent  it.  Hardly  anybody  there, 
except  the  mild  men,  stayed,  or  v^ent  away,  without  con- 
sidering himself  or  herself  neglected  and  aggrieved  by 
Mr.  Dombey  or  Mrs.  Dombey  ; and  the  speechless  female 
in  the  black  velvet  hat  was  found  to  have  been  stricken 
mute,  because  the  lady  in  the  crimson  velvet  had  been 
handed  down  before  her.  The  nature  even  of  the  mild 
men  got  corrupted,  either  from  their  curdling  it  with  too 
much  lemonade,  or  from  the  general  inoculation  that  pire- 
vailed  ; and  they  made  sarcastic  jokes  to  one  another, 
and  whispered  disparagement  on  stairs  and  in  bye-places. 
The  general  dissatisfaction  and  discomfort  so  diffused  it- 
self, that  the  assembled  footmen  in  the  hall  were  as  well 
acquainted  with  it  as  the  company  above.  Nay,  the  very 
linkmen  outside  got  hold  of  it,  and  compared  the  party 


250 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS, 


to  a funeral  out  of  mourning,  with  none  of  tho  company 
'remembered  in  the  will. 

At  last,  the  guests  were  all  gone,  and  the  linkmen  too  ; 
and  the  street.'  crowded  so  long  with  carriages,  was  clear  ; 
and  the  dying  lights  showed  no  one  in  the  rooms,  but  Mr. 
Dombey  and  Mr.  Carker,  who  were  talking  together 
apart,  and  Mrs.  Dombey  and  her  mother  : the  former 
seated  on  an  ottoman  ; the  latter  reclining  in  a Cleopatra 
attitude,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  her  maid.  Mr.  Dombey 
having  finished  his  communication  to  Carker,  the  latter 
advanced  obsequiously  to  take  leave. 

trust,”  he  said,  -'‘that  the  fatigues  of  this  delight- 
ful evening  will  not  inconvenience  Mrs.  Dombey  to-mor< 
row.” 

“Mrs.  Dombey,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  advancing,  “has 
sufficiently  spared  herself  fatigue,  to  relieve  you  from 
any  anxiety  of  that  land.  I regret  to  say,  Mrs.  Dombey, 
that  1 could  have  wished  you  had  fatigued  yourself  a 
little  more  on  this  occasion.” 

She  looked  at  him  with  a supercilious  glance,  that  it 
seemed  not  worth  her  while  to  protract,  and  turned  away 
her  eyes  without  speaking. 

“1  am  sorry,  madam,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  “that  you 
should  not  have  thought  it  your  duty — ” 

She  looked  at  him  again. 

“ Tour  duty,  madam,”  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  “ to  have 
received  my  friends  with  a little  more  deference.  Some 
of  those  whom  you  have  been  pleased  to  slight  to-night 
in  a very  marked  manner,  Mrs.  Dombey,  confer  a dis- 
tinction upon  you,  I must  tell  you,  in  any  visit  they  pay, 
you.” 

“ Do  you  you  know  that  there  is  some  one  here  ?”  she 
returned,  now  looking  at  him  steadily. 

“No  ! Carker  1 I beg  that  you  do  not.  I insist  that 
you  do  not,”  cried  Mr.  Domhey,  stopping  that  noiseless 
gentleman  in  his  withdrawal.  “ Mr.  Carker,  madam,  as 
you  know,  possesses  my  confidence.  He  is  as  well 
acquainted  as  myself  with  the  subject  on  which  I speak. 

I beg  to  tell  you  for  your  information,  Mrs.  Dombey, 
that  I consider  these  wealthy  and  important  persons  con- 
fer a distinction  upon  me  : ” and  Mr.  Dombey  drew  him- 
self up,  as  having  now  rendered  them  of  the  highest 
possible  importance. 

“I  ask  you,”  she  repeated,  bending  her  disdainful 
and  steady  gaze  upon  him,  “do  you  know  that  there  is 
some  one  here,  sir?” 

“ I must  entreat,”  said  Mr.  Carker,  stepping  forward, 
“ I must  beg,  I must  demand,  to  be  released.  Slight 
and  unimportant  as  this  difference  is — ” 

Mrs.  Skewton,  who  had  been  intent  upon  her  daugh® 
ter’s  face,  took  him  up  here. 


DO  YOU  KNOW  THAT  THERE  IS  SOME  ONE  HERE  ? ’’  SHE  RETURNED,  NOW  LOOKING  AT  HIM  STEADILY. 

— Dombey  and  Son,  Vol.  Twelve,  page  251. 


252 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


sweetest  Edith/’  she  said,  "and  my  dearest 
Dombey ; oar  excellent  friend  Mr.  Carker,  for  so  I am 
sure  I ought  to  mention  him — ” 

"Mr.  Carker  murmured,  " Too  much  honour.” 

" — has  used  the  very  words  that  were  in  my  mind, 
and  that  I have  been  dying,  these  ages,  for  an  opportun- 
ity of  introducing.  Slight  and  unimportant  ! My  sweet- 
est Edith,  and  my  dearest  Dombey,  do  we  not  know  that 
any  difference  between  you  two — No,  Flowers  ; not  now.” 

Flowers  was  the  maid,  who,  finding  gentlemen  pres- 
ent retreated  with  precipitation. 

" That  any  difference  between  you  two,”  resumed  Mrs. 
Skewton,  " with  the  heart  you  possess  in  common,  and 
the  excessively  charming  bond  of  feeling  that  there  is 
between  you,  must  be  slight  and  unimportant  ? What 
v/ords  could  better  define  the  fact  ? None.  Therefore 
I am  glad  to  take  this  slight  occasion — this  trifling  oc- 
casion, that  is  so  replete  with  Nature,  and  your  indivi- 
dual characters,  and  all  that — so  truly  calculated  to 
bring  the  tears  into  a parent’s  eyes — to  say  that  I attach 
no  importance  to  them  in  the  least,  except  as  developing 
these  minor  elements  of  Soul  ; and  that,  unlike  most 
mamas-in-law  (that  odious  phrase,  dear  Dombey  !)  as  they 
have  been  represented  to  me  to  exist  in  this  I fear  too  ar- 
tificial world,  I never  shall  attempt  to  interpose  between 
you,  at  such  a time,  and  never  can  much  regret,  after 
all,  such  little  flashes  of  the  torch  of  What’s-his-name 
— not  Cupid,  but  the  other  delightful  creature.” 

There  was  a sharpness  in  the  good  mother’s  glance  at 
both  her  children  as  she  spoke,  that  may  have  been  ex- 
pressive of  a direct  and  well-considered  purpose  hidden 
between  these  rambling  words.  That  purpose,  provi- 
dently to  detach  herself  in  the  beginning  from  all  the 
clankings  of  their  chain  that  were  to  come,  and  to  shelter 
herself  with  the  fiction  of  her  innocent  belief  in  their 
mutual  affection,  and  their  adaptation  to  each  other. 

" I have  pointed  out  to  Mrs.  Dombey,”  said  Mr.  Dom^ 
bey,  in  his  most  stately  manner,  ' that  in  her  conduct 
thus  early  in  our  married  life,  to  which  I object,  and 
■which,  I request,  may  be  corrected.  Carker,”  with  a nod 
of  dismissal,  "good  night  to  you  ! ” 

Mr.  Carker  bowed  to  the  imperious  form  of  the  bride, 
whose  sparkling  eye  was  fixed  upon  her  husband  ; and 
stopping  at  Cleopatra's  couch  on  his  way  out,  raised  to 
his  . lips  the  hand  she  graciously  extended  to  him,  in 
lowly  and  admiring  homage. 

If  his  handsome  wife  had  reproached  him,  or  even 
changed  countenance,  or  broken  the  silence  in  which  she 
remained,  by  one  word,  now  that  they  were  alone  (for 
Cleopatra  made  off  with  all  speed),  Mr.  Dombey  would 
have  been  equal  to  some  assertion  of  his  case  against  her^ 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


25B 


But  tlie  intense,  unutterable,  withering  scorn,  with 
which,  after  locking  upon  him,  she  dropped  her  eyes  as 
if  he  were  too  worthless  and  indifferent  to  her  to  be 
challenged  with  a syllable— the  ineffable  disdain  and 
haughtiness  in  which  she  sat  before  him — the  cold  in- 
flexible resolve  with  which  her  every  feature  seemed  to 
bear  him  down,  and  put  him  by — he  had  no  resource 
against ; and  he  left  her,  with  her  whole  overbearing 
beauty  concentrated  on  despising  him. 

Was  he  coward  enough  to  watch  her,  an  hour  after- 
wards, on  the  old  well  staircase,  where  he  had  once  seen 
Florence  in  the  moonlight,  toiling  up  with  Paul  ? Or  was 
he  in  the  dark  by  accident,  when,  looking  up,  he  saw 
her  coming,  with  a light,  from  the  room  where  Florence 
lay,  and  marked  again  the  face  so  changed,  which  he 
could  not  subdue  ? 

But,  it  could  never  alter  as  his  own  did.  It  never*,  in 
its  utmost  pride  and  passion,  knew  the  shadow  that  had 
fallen  on  his,  in  the  dark  corner,  on  the  night  of  the  re- 
turn  and  often  since  ; and  which  deepened  on  it  now  as 
be  looked  up. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

More  Warnings  than  One. 

Florence,  Edith,  and  Mrs.  Skewton  were  together 
next  day,  and  the  carriage  was  waiting  at  the  door  to 
take  them  out.  For  Cleopatra  had  her  galley  again  now, 
and  Withers,  no  longer  the  wan,  stood  upright  in  a 
pigeon-breasted  jacket  and  military  trousers,  behind  her 
wheelless  chair  at  dinner  time,  and  butted  no  more.  The 
hair  of  Withers  v/as  radiant  with  pomatum,  in  these  days 
of  down,  and  he  wore  kid  gloves  and  smelt  of  the  water 
of  Cologne. 

They  were  assembled  in  Cleopatra’s  room.  The  Ser- 
pent of  old  Nile  (not  to  mention  her  disrespectfully)  was 
reposing  on  her  sofa,  sipping  her  morning  chocolate  at 
three  o’clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  Flowers  the  maid  was 
fastening  on  her  youthful  cuffs  and  frills,  and  perform- 
ing a kind  of  private  coronation  ceremony  on  her,  with  a 
peach-coloured  velvet  bonnet ; the  artificial  roses  in 
which  nodded  to  uncommon  advantage,  as  the  palsy  tri- 
fled with  them,  like  a breeze. 

I think  I am  a little  nervous  this  morning.  Flowers,’* 
said  Mrs.  Skewton.  My  hand  quite  shakes.” 

‘‘You  were  the  life  of  the  party  last  night,  ma’am,  you 
know,”  returned  Flowers,  “ and  you  suffer  for  it  to-day, 
you  see.” 

Edith,  who  had  beckoned  Florence  to  the  window,  and 


254 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


was  looking  out,  wilL  her  back  turned  on  the  toilet  of 
her  esteemed  mother,  suddenly  withdrew  from  it,  as  if 
it  had  lightened. 

My  darling  child,’"  cried  Cleopatra  languidly  '‘you 
aie  not  nervous  ? Don’t  tell  me,  my  dear  Edith,  that  3mu, 
so  enviabl}"  self-possessed,  are  beginning  to  be  a martyr 
too,  like  your  unfortunately  constituted  mother  ! With- 
ers, some  one  at  the  door.” 

Card,  ma"am,”  said  Withers,  taking  it  towards  Mrs. 
Dombey. 

I^am  going  out,”  she  said,  without  looking  at  it. 

My  dear  love,”  drawled  Mrs.  Skewton,  ‘‘  how  very 
odd  to  send  that  message  without  seeing  the  name  I 
Bring  it  here.  Withers.  Dear  me,  my  love  ; Mr.  Carker, 
too  ! that  very  sensible  person  ! ” 

I am  going  out,”  repeated  Edith,  in  so  imperious  a 
tone,  that  Withers,  going  to  the  door,  imperiously  in- 
formed the  servant  who  was  waiting,  ‘‘Mrs.  Dombey  is 
going  out.  Get  along  with  you,”  and  shut  it  on  him. 

But  the  servant  came  back  after  a short  absence,,  and 
whispered  to  Withers  again,  who  once  more,  and  not 
very  willingly,  presented  himself  before  Mrs.  Dombey. 

“ If  you  please,  ma’am,  Mr.  Carker  sends  his  respect- 
ful  compliments,  and  begs  you  would  spare  him  one  min 
ute,  if  you  could — for  business,  ma^am,  if  you  please.” 

“ Really,  my  love,”  said  Mrs.  Skewton  in  her  mildest 
manner  ; for  her  daughter’s  face  was  threatening  ; “if 
you  will  allow  me  to  offer  a word,  I should  recom 
mend — ” 

“ Show  him  this  way,”  said  Edith.  As  Withers  dis^ 
appeared  to  execute  the  command,  she  added,  frowning 
on  her  mother,  “As  he  comes  at  your  'recommendation 
let  him  come  to  your  room.” 

“May  I — shall  I go  away  ? ” asked  Florence,  hurriedly, 

Edith  nodded  yes,  but  on  her  way  to  the  door,  Flof 
ence  met  the  visitor  coming  in.  With  the  same  disa 
greeable  mixture  of  familiarity  and  forbearance  with 
which  he  had  first  addressed  her,  he  addressed  her  now 
in  his  softest  manner — hoped  she  was  quite  well — needed 
not  to  ask,  with  such  looks  to  anticipate  the  answ^er — had 
scarcely  had  the  honour  to  know  her,  last  night,  she  was 
so  greatly  changed — and  held  the  door  open  for  her  to 
pass  out ; with  a secret  sense  of  power  in  her  shrinking 
from  him,  that  all  the  deference  and  politeness  of  his 
manner  could  not  quite  conceal. 

He  then  bowed  himself  for  a moment  over  Mrs.  Skew’- 
ton’s  condescending  hand,  and  lastly  bowed  to  Edith. 
Coldly  returning  his  salute  without  looking  at  him,  and 
neither  seating  herself  nor  inviting  him  to  be  seated,  she 
waited  for  him  to  speak. 

Entrenched  iii  her  pride  and  powder,  and  wdth  all  the 


BOM  BEY  AND  SON. 


255 


obduracy  of  lier  spirit  summoned  about  her,  still  lier  old 
ccnviction  that  sbe  and  her  mother  had  been  known  by 
this  man  in  their  worst  colours,  from  their  first  acquaint- 
ance ; that  every  degradation  she  had  suffered  in  her 
own  eyes  was  as  plain  to  him  as  to  herself  ; that  he  read 
her  life  as  though  it  were  a vile  book,  and  fluttered  the 
leaves  before  her  in  slight  looks  and  tones  of  voice  which 
no  one  else  could  detect  ; weakened  and  undermined  her. 
Proudly  as  she  opposed  herself  to  him,  with  her  com- 
manding face  exacting  his  humility > her  disdainful  lip 
repulsing  him,  her  bosom  angry  at  his  intrusion,  and  the 
dark  lashes  of  her  eye  sullenly  veiling  their  light,  that 
no  ray  of  it  might  shine  upon  him — and  submissively  as 
he  stood  before  her,  with  an  entreating  injured  manner, 
but  with  complete  submission  to  her  will — she  knew  in 
her  own  soul,  that  the  cases  w^ere  reversed,  and  that  th© 
triumph  and  superiority  were  his,  and  that  he  knew  it  full 
well. 

“I  have  presumed,”  said  Mr.  Carker,  *'to  solicit  an 
Interview,  and  I have  ventured  to  describe  it  as  being  one 
of  business,  because— 

Perhaps  you  are  charged  by  Mr.  Dombey  with  some 
message  of  reproof,”  said  Edith.  You  possess  Mr. 
Dombey’s  confidence  in  such  an  unusual  degree,  sir, 
that  you  w^ouid  scarcely  surprise  me  if  that  were  your 
business.” 

‘‘I  have  no  message  to  the  lady  who  sheds  a lustre 
upon  his  name,”  said  Mr.  Carker.  "‘But  I entreat  that 
lady,  on  my  own  behalf,  to  be  just  to  a very  humble 
claimant  for  justice  at  her  hands — a mere  dependent  of 
Mr.  Dombey’s — which  is  a position  of  humility ; and  to  re- 
flect upon  my  perfect  helplessness  last  night,  and  the 
impossibility  of  my  avoiding  the  share  that  was  forced 
upon  me  in  a very  painful  occasion.” 

“ My  dearest  Edith,”  hinted  Cleopatra  in  a low  voice, 
as  she  held  her  eye-glass  aside,  ‘ " really  very  charming  of 
Mr.  What’s-his  marne.  And  full  of  heart ! ” 

“ For  I do,”  said  Mr.  Carker,  appealing  to  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton  with  a look  of  grateful  deference, — “ I do  venture  to 
call  it  a painful  occasion,  though  merely  because  it  was 
so  to  me,  who  had  the  misfortune  to  oe  nresent.  So 
slight  a difference,  as  between  the  principals — between 
those  v/ho  love  each  other  with  disinterested  devotion, 
and  would  make  any  sacrifice  of  self,  in  such  a cause=-= 
is  nothing.  As  Mrs.  Skewton  herself  expressed,  with  so 
much  truth  and  feeling,  last  night,  it  is  nothing.  ” 

Edith  could  not  look  at  him,  but  she  said  after  a few 
moments, 

“ And  your  business,  sir — ” 

« Edith,  my  pet,”  said  Mrs.  Skev/ton,  all  this  time 


256 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Mr.  Carker  is  standing  ! My  dear  Mr.  Carker,  take  a 
seat,  I beg/' 

He  offered  no  reply  to  tke  mother,  but  fixed  his  eyes 
on  the  proud  daughter,  as  though  he  would  onl5>  be* 
bidden  by  her,  and  was  resolved  to  be  bidden  by  her. 
Edith,  in  spite  of  herself,  sat  down,  and  slightly  motioned 
with  her  hand  to  him  to  be  seated  too.  No  action  could 
be  colder,  haughtier,  more  insolent  in  its  air  of  suprem- 
acy and  disrespect,  but  she  had  struggled  against  even 
that  concession  ineffectually,  and  it  was  wrested  from 
her.  That  was  enough  ! Mr.  Carker  sat  down. 

May  I be  allowed,  madam,”  said  Carker,  turning  his 
white  teeth  on  Mrs.  Skewton  like  a light — a lady  of 
four  excellent  sense  and  quick  feeling  will  give  me 
credit,  for  good  reason,  1 am  sure— to  address  what  I 
have  to  say,  to  Mrs,  Bornbey,  and  to  leave  her  to  impart 
it  to  you  who  are  her  best  and  dearest  friend — next  to 
Mr.  Dombey?” 

Mrs.  Skewton  would  have  retired,  but  Edith  stopped 
her.  Edith  would  have  stopped  Mm  too,  and  indignantly 
ordered  him  to  speak  openly  or  not  at  all,  but  that  he 
Baid  in  a low  voice  — ‘‘Miss  Florence — the  young  lady 
who  has  just  left  the  room—” 

Edith  suffered  him  to  proceed.  She  looked  at  him 
now.  As  he  bent  forward,  to  be  nearer,  with  the  utmost 
show  of  delicacy  and  respect,  and  with  his  teeth  persua- 
sively arrayed,  in  a self -depreciating  smile,  she  felt  as  if 
she  could  have  struck  him  dead. 

“ Miss  Florence's  position,”  he  began,  “has  been  an 
unfortunate  one.  I have  a difficulty  in  alluding  to  it  to 
you,  whose  attachment  to  her  father  is  naturally  watch- 
ful and  jealous  of  every  word  that  applies  to  him.”  Al- 
ways distinct  and  soft  in  speech,  no  language  could  de- 
scribe the  extent  of  his  distinctness  and  softness,  when 
he  said  these  words,  or  came  to  any  others  of  a similar 
import.  “ But,  as  one  who  is  devoted  to  Mr.  Bornbey 
2n  his  different  way,  and  whose  life  is  passed  in  admira- 
tion of  Mr.  Dombey's  character,  may  I say,  without  of  ^ 
fence  to  your  tenderness  as  a wife,  that  Miss  Florence 
has  unhappily  been  neglected— by  her  father.  May  1 
say  by  her  father?” 

Edith  replied,  “I  know  it.” 

“You  know  it!”  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  a great  ap- 
pearance of  relief.  “It  removes  a mountain  from  my 
breast.  May  I hope  you  know  how  the  neglect  origin- 
ated ; in  what  an  amiable  phase  of  Mr.  Bombey's  pride 
'^-Kiharacter  I mean  ? ” 

*‘You  may  pass  that  by,  sir,”  she  returned,  “and 
©ome  the  sooner  to  the  end  of  what  you  have  to  say.  ” 

“Indeed,  I am  sensible,  madam,”  replied  Carker, — 

trust  me,  I am  deeply  sensible,  that  Mr.  Bornbey  can 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


257 


require  no  justification  in  any  tiling,  to  you.  But,  kindly 
Judge  of  my  breast  by  your  own,  and  you  will  forgive 
my  interest  in  him,  if,  in  its  excess,  it  goes  at  all 
astray/’ 

What  a stab  to  her  proud  heart,  to  sit  there,  face  to 
face  with  him,  and  have  him  tendering  her  false  oath  at 
the  altar  again  and  again  for  her  acceptance,  and  press- 
ing it  upon  her  like  the  dregs  of  a sickening  cup  she 
could  not  own  her  loathing  of,  or  turn  away  from  I How 
shame,  remorse,  and  passion  raged  within  her,  when, 
upright  in  her  beauty  before  him,  she  knew  that  in  her 
spirit  she  w^as  down  at  his  feet  1 

‘‘Miss  h^rence,”  said  Carker,  “left  to  the  care — if 
one  may  call  it  care — of  servants  and  mercenary  people, 
in  every  way  her  inferiors,  necessarily  wanted  some 
guide  and  compass  in  her  younger  days,  and,  naturally, 
for  want  of  them,  has  been  indiscreet,  and  has  in  some 
degree  forgotten  her  station.  There  was  some  folly 
about  one  Walter,  a common  lad,  who  is  fortunately 
dead  now  : and  some  very  undesirable  association,  I re- 
gret to  say,  with  certain  coasting  sailors,  of  anything 
but  good  repute,  and  a runaway  old  bankrupt.” 

“ I have  heard  the  circumstances,  sir,”  said  Edith, 
Sashing  her  disdainful  glance  upon  him,  “and  I know 
•>5hat  you  pervert  them.  You  may  not  know  it,  I hope 
so* 

“Pardon  me,”  said  Mr.  Carker,  “I  believe  that  no- 
body knows  them  so  well  as  I.  Your  generous  and 
ardent  nature,  madam— the  same  nature  which  is  so 
nobly  imperative  in  vindication  of  your  beloved  and 
honoured  husband,  and  which  has  blessed  him  as  even 
his  merits  deserve— I must  respect,  defer  to,  bov/  before. 
But,  as  regards  the  circumstances,  which  is  indeed  the 
business  I presume  to  solicit  your  attention  to,  I can 
have  no  doubt,  since,  in  the  execution  of  my  trust  as 
Mr.  Dombey’s  confidential^ — I presume  to  say — frienrl,  I 
have  fully  ascertained  them,  in  my  execution  of  that 
trust ; in  my  deep  concern,  which  you  can  so  well  under- 
stand, for  everything  relating  to  him,  intensified,  if  you 
will,  (for  I fear  I labour  under  your  displeasure,)  by  the 
lower  motive  of  desire  to  prove  my  diligence,  and  make 
myself  the  more  acceptable  ; I have  long  pursued  these 
circumstances  by  myself  and  trustworthy  instruments, 
and  have  innumerable  and  most  minute  proofs.” 

She  raised  her  eyes  no  higher  than  his  mouth,  but  she 
saw  the  means  of  mischief  vaunted  in  every  tooth  it 
contained. 

“ Pardon  me,  madam,”  he  continued,  “if,  in  my  per- 
plexity, /presume  to  take  counsel  with  you,  and  to  con- 
sult your  pleasure.  I think  I have  observed  that  you 
are  greatly  interested  in  Miss  Florence  ? ” 


258 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


■What  was  there  in  her  he  had  not  observed,  and  did 
not  know  ? Humbled  and  yet  maddened  by  the  thought, 
in  every  new  presentment  of  it,  however  faint,  she 
pressed  her  teeth  upon  her  quivering  lip  to  force  com- 
posure on  it,  and  distantly  inclined  her  head  in  reply. 

This  interest,  madam — so  touching  an  evidence  of 
everything  associated  with  Mr.  Dombey  being  dear  to 
you—induces  me  to  pause  before  I make  him  acquainted 
with  these  circumstances,  which,  as  yet,  he  does  not 
know.  It  so  far  shakes  me,  if  I may  make  the  confes- 
sion, in  my  allegiance,  that  on  the  intimation  of  the  least 
desire  to  that  effect  from  you,  I v/ould  suppress  them.” 

Edith  raised  her  head  quickly,  and  starting  back, 
bent  her  dark  glance  upon  liirn^.  He  met  it  v/ith  his 
blandest  and  most  deferential  smile,  and  went  on. 

You  say  that  as  I described  them,  they  are  perverted. 
I fear  not— I fear  not : but  let  us  assume  that  they  are. 
The  uneasiness  I have  for  some  time  felt  on  the  subject 
arises  in  this  : that  the  mere  circumstance  of  such  asso- 
ciation often  repeated,  on  the  part  of  Miss  Florence,  how- 
ever innocently  and  confidingly,  would  be  conclusive 
with  Mr.  Dombey,  already  predisposed  against  her,  and 
would  lead  him  to  take  some  step  (I  know  he  has  occasion* 
ally  contemplated  it)  of  separation  and  alienation  of  her 
from  his  home.  Madam,  bear  with  me,  and  remember 
mv  intercourse  with  Mr.  Dombey,  and  my  knowledge  of 
him,  and  my  reverence  for  him,  almost  from  childhood, 
when  I say  that  if  he  has  a fault,  it  is  a lofty^stuhhorn- 
ness,  rooted  in  that  noble  pride  and  sense  of  power  which 
belong  to  him,  and  which  we  must  all  defer  to ; which 
is  not  assailable  like  the  obstinacy  of  other  characters  ; 
and  which  grows  upon  itself  from  day  to  day,  and  year 
to  year.” 

She  bent  her  glance  upon  him  still  ; hut,  look  as  sted- 
fast  as  she  would,  her  haughty  nostrils  dilated,  and  her 
breath  came  somewhat  deeper,  and  her  lip  would  slightly 
curl  as  he  described  that  in  his  patron  to  which  they 
must  all  bow  down.  He  saw  it ; and  though  his  expres- 
sion did  not  change,  she  knew  he  saw  it. 

‘‘Even  so  slight  an  incident  as  last  night’s,”  he  said, 
“ if  I might  refer  to  it  once  more,  would  serve  to  illus- 
strate  my  meaning,  better  than  a greater  one.  Dombey 
and  Son  know  neither  time,  nor  place,  nor  season,  but 
hear  them  all  down.  But  I rejoice  in  its  occurrence,  for 
it  has  opened  the  way  for  me  to  approach  Mrs.  Dombey 
with  this  subject  to-day,  even  if  it  has  entailed  upon  me 
the  penalty  of  her  temporary  displeasure.  Madam,  in 
the  midst  of  my  uneasiness  and  apprehension  on  this 
subject,  I was  summoned  by  Mr.  Dombey  to  Leamington. 
Til  ere  I saw  you.  There  I could  not  help  knowing  what 
relation  you  would  shortly  occupy  towards  him — to  hia 


WITHERS,  MEETING  HIBI  ON  THE  STAIRS,  STOOD  AMAZED  AT  THE 
BEAUTY  OE  HIS  TEETH,  AND  AT  HIS  BRILLIANT  SMILE. 

— Dombey  and  Son,  Vol.  Twelye,  page  859. 


260 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


endurin^r  happiness  and  yours.  There  I resolved  to 
await  the  lime  of  your  establishment  at  home  here,  and 
to  do  as  I have  now  done.  I have  at  heart,  no  fear  that 
I shall  be  wanting  in  my  duty  to  Mr.  Dombey,  if  I bury 
what  I know  in  your  breast  ; for  where  there  is  but  one 
heart  and  mind  betv/een  two  persons — as  in  such  a mar 
riage— one  almost  represents  the  other.  I can  acquit 
my  conscience  therefore,  almost  equally,  by  confidence, 
on  such  a theme,  in  you  or  him.  For  the  reasons  I have 
mentioned,  I would  select  you.  May  1 aspire  to  the 
distinction  of  believing  that  my  confidence  is  accepted, 
and  that  I am  relieved  from  my  responsibility? 

He  long  remembered  the  look  she  gave  him — who  could 
see  it,  and  forget  it?— and  the  struggle  that  ensued 
within  her.  At  last,  she  said  : 

I accept  it,  sir.  You  will  please  to  consider  this 
Matter  at  an  end,  and  that  it  goes  no  further.’’ 

He  bowed  low,  and  rose.  She  rose  too,  and  he  took 
leave  with  all  humility.  But,  Withers,  meeting  him  on 
the  stairs,  stood  amazed  at  the  beauty  of  his  teeth,  and 
at  his  brilliant  smile  ; and  as  he  rode  away  upon  his 
white-legged  horse,  the  people  took  him  for  a dentist, 
such  was  the  dazzling  show  he  made.  The  people  took 
when  she  rode  out  in  her  carriage  presently,  for  a 
great  lady,  as  happy  as  she  was  rich  and  fine.  But,  they 
had  not  seen  her,  just  before,/ in  her  own  room  with*  no 
one  by;  and  they  had  not  heard  her  utterance  of  the  three 
words,  ' ' Oh  Florence,  Florence  ! ” 

Mrs.  Skewton,  reposing  on  her  sofa,  and  sipping  her 
chocolate,  had  heard  nothing  but  the  low  word  business, 
for  which  she  had  a mortal  aversion,  insomuch  that  she 
had  long  banished  it  from  her  vocabulary,  and  had  gone 
nigh,  in  a charming  manner  and  with  an  immense 
amount  of  heart  (to  say  nothing  of  soul),  to  ruin  divers 
milliners  and  others  in  consequence.  Therefore,  Mrs. 
Skewton  asked  no  questions,  and  showed  no  curiosity. 
Indeed,  the  peach- velvet  bonnet  gave  her  sufficient  occu- 
pation out  of  doors ; for  being  perched  on  the  back  of 
her  head,  and  the  day  being  rather  windy,  it  was  frantic 
to  escape  from  Mrs.  Skewton’s  company,  and  would  be 
coaxed  into  no  sort  of  compromise.  When  the  carriage 
was  closed,  and  the  wind  shut  out,  the  palsy  played 
among  the  artificial  roses  again,  like  an  alms-house  full 
of  superannuated  zephyrs  ; and  altogether  Mrs.  Skewton 
had  enough  to  do,  and  got  on  but  indifferently. 

She  got  on  no  better  towards  night ; for  when  Mrs. 
Dombey  in  her  dressing-room,  had  been  dressed  and 
waiting  for  her  half  an  hour,  and  Mr.  Dombey,  in  the 
drawing-room,  had  paraded  himself  into  a state  of  soL 
ema  fretf  illness  (they  were  all  three  going  out  to  din- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


261 


ner),  Flowers  fhe  maid  appeared  with  a pale  face  to  Mrs. 
Dombey,  saying : 

‘‘If  you  please,  ma’am,  I beg  your  pardon,  but  I can’t 
do  notWng  with  missis  ! ” 

What  do  you  mean  ? ” asked  Edith. 

^^Well,  ma’am,”  replied  the  frightened  maid,  “I 
hardly  know.  She’s  making  faces  1 ” 

Edith  hurried  with  her  to  her  mother’s  room.  Cleopa- 
tra was  arrayed  in  full  dress,  with  the  diamonds,  short- 
sleeves,  rouge,  curls,  teeth,  and  other  juvenility  all  com- 
plete ; but  Paralysis  was  not  to  be  deceived,  had  known 
her  for  the  object  of  its  errand,  and  had  struck  her  at 
her  glass,  where  she  lay  like  a horrible  doll  that  had 
tumbled  down. 

They  took  her  to  pieces  in  very  shame,  and  put  the 
little  of  her  that  was  real  on  a bei  Doctors  were  sent 
for,  and  soon  came.  Powerful  remedies  were  resorted 
to  ; opinions  given  that  she  would  rally  from  this  shock, 
but  would  not  survive  another ; and  there  she  lay  speech- 
less, and  staring  at  the  ceiling,  for  days  : sometimes 
making  inarticulate  sounds  in  answer  to  such  questions 
as  did  she  know  who  were  present,  and  the  like  : some- 
times giving  no  reply  either  by  sign  or  gesture,  or  in  her 
unwinking  eyes. 

At  length  she  began  to  recover  consciousness,  and  in 
some  degree  the  power  of  niotion,  though  not  yet  of 
speech.  One  day  the  use  of  her  right  hand  returned  ; 
and  showing  it  to  her  maid  who  was  in  attendance  on 
her,  and  appearing  very  uneasy  in  her  mind,  she  made 
signs  for  a pencil  and  some  paper.  This  the  maid  immedi- 
ately provided,  thinking  she  was  going  to  make  a will, 
or  write  some  last  request  ; and  Mrs.  Dombey  being  from 
home,  tbe  maid  awaited  the  result  with  solemn  feelings. 

After  much  painful  scrawling  and  erasing,  and  putting 
In  of  wrong  characters,  which  seemed  to  tumble  out  of 
the  pencil  of  their  own  accord,  the  old  woman  produced 
this  document  : 

“Rose-coloured  curtains.” 

The  maid  being  perfectly  transfixed,  and  with  tolerable 
reason,  Cleopatra  amended  the  manuscript  by  adding  two 
words  more,  when  it  stood  thus  : 

“Rose-coloured  curtains  for  doctors.” 

The  maid  now  perceived  remotely  that  she  wished 
these  articles  to  be  provided  for  the' better  presentation 
of  her  complexion  to  the  faculty  ; and  as  those  in  the 
house  who  knew  her  best,  liad  no  doubt  of  the  correct- 
ness of  this  opinion,  v^hich  she  was  soon  able  to  establish 
for  herself,  the  rose-coloured  curtains  were  added  to  he5 
bed,  and  she  mended  with  increased  rapidity  from  that 
hour.  She  was  soon  able  to  sit  up,  in  curls  and  a laced 


362 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


cap  and  night-gown,  and  to  have  a iittle  artificial  bloom 
dropped  into  tiie  hollow  caverns  of  her  cheeks. 

It  was  a tremendous  sight  to  see  this  old  woman  in 
her  finery  leering  and  mincing  at  Death,  and  playing  off 
her  youthful  tricks  upon  him  as  if  he  had  been  the 
major  ; but  an  alteration  in  her  mind  that  ensued  on 
the  X->aralytic  stroke  was  fraught  with  as  much  mattei^ 
for  reflection,  and  was  quite  as  ghastly. 

Whether  the  weakening  of  her  intellect  made  her 
more  cunning  and  false  than  before,  or  whether  it  con- 
fused her  between  what  she  had  assumed  to  be  and  what 
she  really  had  been,  or  whether  it  had  awakened  any 
glimmering  of  remorse,  which  could  neither  struggle 
into  light  nor  get  back  into  total  darkness,  or  whether, 
in  the  jumble  of  her  faculties,  a combination  of  these 
effects  had  been  shaken  up,  which  is  perhaps  the  more 
likely  supposition,  the  result  was  this  : — That  she  becamo 
hugely  exact  in  respect  of  Edith’s  affection  and  gratitude 
and  attention  to  her  ; highly  laudatory  of  herself  as  a 
most  inestimable  parent ; and  very  jealous  of  having 
any  rival  in  Edith’s  regard.  Further,  in  place  of  re- 
membering that  compact  made  between  them  for  an 
avoidance  of  the  subject,  she  constantly  alluded  to  her 
daughter’s  marriage  as  a proof  of  her  being  an  incom- 
parable mother  ; and  all  this,  with  the  weakness  and 
peevishness  of  such  a state,  always  serving  for  a sarcas- 
tic commentary  on  her  levity  and  youthfulness. 

'‘Where  is  Mrs.  Dombey?”  she  would  say  to  her 
maid. 

" Gone  out,  ma’am.” 

" Gone  out ! Does  she  go  out  to  shun  her  mama, 
Flowers  ?” 

" La  bless  you,  no  ma’am.  Mrs.  Dombey  has  only 
gone  out  for  a ride  with  Miss  Florence.” 

‘^Miss  Florence.  Who’s  Miss  Florence?  Don’t  teE 
me  about  Miss  Florence.  What’s  Miss  Florence  to  heiv 
compared  to  me  ? ” 

The  opposite  display  of  the  diamonds,  or  the  peach- 
velvet  bonnet  (she  sat  in  the  bonnet  to  receive  visitors, 
w'eeks  before  she  could  stir  out  of  doors),  or  the  dressing 
of  her  up  in  some  gaud  or  other,  usually  stopped  the 
tears  that  began  to  flow  hereabouts  ; and  she  would  r«^ 
main  in  a complacent  state  until  Edith  came  to  see  her  1 
when,  at  a glance  of  the  proud  face,  she  would  relapsi 
again . 

" Well,  I am  sure,  Edith  !”  she  would  cry,  shaking 
her  head. 

“ What  is  the  matter,  mother  ? ” 

“ Matter ! I really  don’t  know  wliat  is  the  matter. 
The  world  is  coming  to  such  an  artificial  and  ungrateful 
istate,  that  I begin  to  think  there’s  no  Heart — or  anything 


BOMBEY  AND  SON. 


2m 


dt  that  sort — ^left  in  it,  positively.  Withers  is  more  a 
child  :o  me  than  you  are-  He  attends  to  me  much  more 
than  my  own  daughter.  I almost  wish  I didn’t  look  so 
young — and  all  that  kind  of  thing — and  then  perhaps  I 
should  he  more  considered.” 

What  would  you  have,  mother?” 

Oh,  a great  deal,  Edith,”  impatiently. 

Is  there  anything  you  want  that  you  have  not? 
is  your  own  fault  if  there  be.” 

‘"My  own  fault!”  beginning  to  whimper.  ‘'The 
parent  I have  been  to  you,  Edith  ; making  you  a com- 
panion from  your  cradle  ! And  w'hen  you  neglect  me, 
and  have  no  more  natural  affection  for  me  than  if  I was 
a stranger — not  a twentieth  part  of  the  affection  that 
you  have  for  Florence — but  I am  only  your  mother  and 
should  corrupt  her  in  a day  ! — you  reproach  me  with  itD 
being  my  own  fault.” 

“Mother,  mother,  I reproach  you  with  nothing.  Wh^ 
will  you  always  dwell  on  this  ? ” 

“ Isn’t  it  natural  that  I should  dwell  on  this,  when  I 
am  all  affection  and  sensitiveness,  and  am  wounded  in 
the  cruellest  way,  whenever  you  look  at  me  ? ” 

“ I do  not  mean  to  wound  you,  mother.  Have  you  no 
remembrance  of  what  has  been  said  between  us?  Let 
the  Past  rest.  ” 

“Yes,  rest ! And  let  gratitude  to  me,  rest ; and  let 
affection  for  me,  rest ; and  let  me  rest  in  my  out-of-the- 
way  room,  with  no  society  and  no  attention,  while  you 
find  new  relations  to  make  much  of,  who  have  no  earthly 
claim  upon  you  S Good  gracious,  Edith,  do  you  know 
what  an  elegant  establishment  you  are  at  the  head  of  ? ” 

“ Yes.  Hush  ! ” 

“ And  that  gentlemanly  creature,  Dombey?  Do  you 
know  that  you  are  married  to  him,  Edith,  and  that  you 
have  a settlement,  and  a position,  and  a carriage,  and 
I don’t  know  what  V’ 

“ Indeed  I know  it,  mother  ; well.” 

“As  you  would  have  had  with  that  delightful  good 
soul— what  did  they  call  him  ? — Granger — if  he  hadn’t 
died.  And  who  have  you  to  thank  for  all  this,  Edith?” 

“ You,  mother  ; you.” 

“ Then  put  your  arms  round  my  neck,  and  kiss  me  ; 
and  show  me,  Edith,  that  you  know  there  never  was  a 
better  mama  than  I have  been  to  you.  And  don’t  let  me 
become  a perfect  fright  with  teazing  and  wearing  myself 
at  your  ingratitude,  or  when  I’m  out  again  in  society  no 
soul  will  know  me,  not  even  that  hateful  animal,  the 
major.” 

But,  sometimes,  when  Edith  went  nearer  to  her,  and 
bending  down  her  stately  head,  put  her  cold  cheek  to 
hers,  the  mother  would  draw  back  as  if  she  were  afraid 


264 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


of  her,  and  would!  fall  into  a fit  of  trembling,  and  cry 
out  that  there  was  a wandering  in  her  wits.  And  some^ 
times  she  would  entreat  her,  with  humility,  to  sit  down 
on  the  chair  beside  her  bed,  and  would  look  at  her  (as 
she  sat  there  brooding)  with  a face  that  even  the  rose- 
coloured  curtains  could  not  make  otherwise  than  seared 
and  wild. 

The  rose-coloured  curtains  blushed,  in  course  of  time, 
on  Cleopatra’s  bodily  recovery,  and  on  her  dress — more 
juvenile  than  ever,  to  repair  the  ravages  of  illness — and 
on  the  rouge,  and  on  the  teeth,  and  on  the  curls,  and  on 
the  diamonds,  and  the  short  sleeves,  and  the  v/hole 
wardrobe  of  the  doll  that  had  tumbled  down  before  the 
mirror.  They  blushed  too,  now  and  then,  upon  an  in- 
distinctness in  her  speech,  which  she  turned  off  with  a 
girlish  giggle,  and  on  an  occasional  failing  in  her  mem- 
ory, that  had  no  rule  in  it  but  came  and  went  fantasti- 
cally, as  if  in  mockery  of  her  fantastic  self. 

But,  they  never  blushed  upon  a change  in  the  new 
manner  of  her  thought  and  speech  towards  her  daugh- 
ter. And  though  that  daughter  often  came  within  their 
influence,  they  never  blushed  upon  her  loveliness  irradi- 
ated by  a smile,  or  softened  by  the  light  of  filial  love,  in 
its  stern  beauty. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

Miss  Tox  improves  an  old  Acquaintance. 

The  forlorn  Miss  Tox,  abandoned  by  her  friend 
Louisa  Chick,  and  bereft  of  Mr.  Dombey’s  countenance 
— for  no  delicate  pair  of  wedding  cards,  united  by  a sil- 
ver thread,  graced  the  chimney -glass  in  Princess’s-place, 
or  the  harpsichord,  or  any  of  those  little  posts  of  display 
which  Lucretia  reserved  for  holiday  occupation — became 
depressed  in  her  spirits,  and  suffered  much  from  melan- 
choly. For  a time  the  Bird  Waltz  was  unheard  in  Prin- 
cess’s  place,  the  plants  were  neglected,  and  dust  col- 
lected on  the  miniature  of  Miss  Tox’s  ancestor  with  the 
powdered  head  and  pigtail. 

Miss  Tox,  however,  was  not  of  an  age  or  of  a disposi- 
tion long  to  abandon  herself  to  unavailing  regrets.  Only 
two  notes  of  the  harpsichord  were  dumb  from  disuse 
when  the  Bird  Waltz  again  warbled  and  trilled  in  the 
crooked  drawing-room  ; only  one  slip  of  geranium  fell  a 
victim  to  imperfect  nursing,  before  she  was  gardening 
at  her  green  baskets  again,  regularly  every  morning ; 
the  powder-headed  ancestor  had  not  been  under  a cloud 
for  more  than  six  weeks,  when  Miss  Tox  breathed  on  his ^ 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


265 


benignant  visage,  and  polished'  him  up  with  a piece  of 
wash-leather. 

Still,  Miss  Tox  was  lonely,  and  at  a loss.  Her  attach- 
ments, however  ludicrously  shown,  were  real  and  strong  ; 
and  she  was,  as  she  expressed  it,  ‘‘deeply  hurt  by  the 
unmerited  contumely  she  had  met  with  from  Louisa. 
But  there  was  no  such  thing  as  anger  in  Miss  Tox’s  com- 
position. If  she  had  ambled  on  through  life,  in  her  soft- 
spoken  way,  without  any  opinions,  she  had,  at  least,  got 
so  far  without  any  harsh  passions.  The  mere  sight  of 
Louisa  Chick  in  the  street  one  ^iay,  at  a considerable  dis- 
tance, so  overpov^^ered  her  milky  nature,  that  she  was 
fain  to  seek  immediate  refuge  in  a pastrycook's,  and 
there,  in  a musty  little  hack  room  usually  devoted  to  the 
consumption  of  soups,  and  pervaded  by  an  oxtail  atmos- 
phere, relieve  her  feelings  by  weeping  plentifully. 

Against  Mr.  Dombey  Miss  Tox  hardly  felt  that  she 
had  any  reason  of  complaint.  Her  sense  of  that  gentle^ 
man's  magnificence  was  such,  that  once  removed  fiom 
him,  she  felt  as  if  her  distance  always  had  been  immeas- 
urable, and  as  if  he  had  greatly  condescended  in  tolerat- 
ing her  at  all.  No  wife  could  he  too  handsome  or  to© 
stately  for  him,  according  to  Miss  Tox's  sincere  opinion. 
It  v/as  perfectly  natural  that  in  looking  for  one,  he 
should  look  high.  Miss  Tox  with  tears  laid  down  this 
proposition,  and  fully  admitted  it  twenty  times  a day. 
She  never  recalled  the  lofty  manner  in  which  Mr,  Dom- 
bey had  made  her  subservient  to  his  convenience  and 
caprices,  and  had  graciously  permitted  her  to  be  one  of 
the  nurses  of  his  little  son.  She  only  thought,  in  her 
own  words,  “ that  she  had  passed  a great  many  happy 
hours  in  that  house,  which  she  must  ever  remember 
with  gratification,  and  that  she  could  never  cease  to  re- 
gard Mr.  Dombey  as  one  of  the  most  impressive  and  dig- 
nified of  men." 

Cut  off,  however,  from  the  implacable  Louisa,  and 
being  shy  of  the  major  (whom  pLe  viewed  with  some 
distrust  now).  Miss  Tox  found  it  very  irksome  to  know 
nothing  of  what  was  going  on  in  Mr.  Dombey' s estab- 
lishment. And  as  she  really  had  got  into  the  habit  of 
considering  Dombey  and  Son  as  the  pivot  on  which  the 
world  in  g(  leral  turned,  she  resolved,  rather  than  be 
ignorant  of  intelligence  which  so  strongly  interested  her, 
to  cultivate  her  old  acquaintance,  Mrs.  Richards,  who 
she  knew,  since  her  last  memorable  appearance  before 
Mr.  Dombey,  was  in  the  habit  of  sometimes  bolding 
communication  with  his  servants.  Perhaps  Miss  Tox  in 
seeking  out  the  Toodle  family,  had  the  tender  motive 
hidden  in  her  breast  of  having  somebody  to  whom  she 
could  talk  about  Mr.  Dombey,  no  matter  how  humble 
that  somebody  might  be. 

VoL.  12  — L 


266 


WORKS  OJ'  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


^ At  all  events,  towards  tlie  Toodle  habitation  Miss  Tox 
directed  her  steps  one  evening,  what  time  Mr.  Toodle, 
cindery  and  swart,  was  refreshing  himself  with  tea,  in 
the  bosom  of  his  family.  Mr.  Toodle  had  only  three 
stages  of  existence.  He  was  either  taking  lefreshment 
in  the  bosom  just  mentioned,  or  he  was  tearing  through 
the  country  at  from  twenty-five  to  fifty  miles  an  hour, 
or  he  was  sleeping  after  his  fatigues.  He  was  always  in 
a whirlwind  or  a calm,  and  a peaceable  contented  easy- 
going man  Mr.  Toodle  w^as  in  either  state.  He  seemed 
to  have  made  over  all  his  own  inheritance  of  fuming  and 
fretting  to  the  engines  '■vvlth  which  he  was  connected, 
which  panted,  and  gasped,  and  chafed,  and  wore  them- 
selves out  in  a most  unsparing  manner,  while  Mr.  Toodle 
led  a mild  and  equable  life. 

Polly,  my  gal,”  said  Mr.  Toodle,  with  a young  Toodle 
on  each  knee,  and  two  more  making  tea  for  him,  and 
plenty  more  scattered  about — Mr.  Toodle  was  never  out 
of  children,  but  always  kept  a good  supply  on  hand — 

You  an't  seen  our  Biler  lately,  have  you 

‘‘No,”  replied  Polly,  “ but  he’s  almost  certain  to  look 
In  to-night.  It’s  his  right  evening,  and  he’s  very  regu- 
lar.” 

“ I suppose,”  said  Mr,  Toodle,  relishing  his  meal  in- 
finitely, “as  our  Biler  is  a doin’  now  about  as  well  as  a 
boy  can  do,  eh,  Polly  ?” 

“Oh  ! he’s  a doing  beautiful  ! ” responded  Polly. 

“He  an’t  got  to  be  at  all  secret-like— has  he,  Polly?’* 
inquired  Mr.  Toodle. 

“ No  ! ” said  Mrs.  Toodle,  plumply. 

“ I’m  glad  he  an’t  got  to  be  at  all  secret-like,  Polly,  ' 
observed  Mr.  Toodle  in  his  slow  and  measured  way,  and 
shovelling  in  his  bread  and  butter  with  a clasp-knife,  as 
if  he  were  stoking  himself,  “ because  that  don’t  look 
well ; do  it,  Polly?” 

“ Why,  of  course  it  don’t  father.  How  can  you  ask  ! ” 

“ You  see,  my  boys  and  gals,”  said  Mr.  Toodle,  look- 
ing round  upon  his  family,  “ wotever  you’re  up  to  in  a 
honest  way,  it’s  my  opinion  as  you  can’t  do  better  than 
be  open.  If  you  find  yourselves  in  cuttings  or  in  tun- 
nels,* don't  you  play  no  secret  games.  Keep  your  whis- 
tles going,  and  let’s  know  where  you  are.” 

The  rising  Toodles  set  up  a shrill  murmur,  expressive 
of  their  resolution  to  profit  by  the  paternal  advice. 

“ But  what  makes  you  say  this  along  of  Rob,  father?” 
asked  his  wife,  anxiously. 

“ Polly,  old  ’ooman,”  said  Mr.  Toodle,  “ I don’t  know 
as  I said  it  partickler  along  o’  Rob,  I’m  sure.  I starts 
light  with  Rob  only  ; I comes  to  a branch  ; I takes  on 
what  I finds  there  ; and  a whole  train  of  ideas  gets 
coupled  on  to  him,  adore  I knows  where  I am,  or  where 


DOMBSY  AND  SOX. 


267 


they  comes  from.  What  a Junction  a man’s  thoughts 
is,”  said  Mr.  Toodle,  ‘‘  to-be-sure  1 ” 

This  profound  rejection  Mr.  Toodle  washed  down 
with  a pint  mug  of  tea,  and  proceeded  to  solidify  with  a 
great  weight  of  bread  and  batter  ; charging  his  young 
daughters  meanwhile,  to  keep  plenty  of  hot  water  in  the 
pot,  as  he  was  nncommon  dry,  and  should  take  the  in- 
definite quantity  of  a sight  of  mugs,”  before  his  thirst 
was  appeased. 

In  satisfying  himself,  however,  Mr.  Toodle  v/as  not  re- 
gardless of  the  younger  branches  about  him,  who,  al- 
though they  had  made  their  own  evening  repast,  were 
on  the  look-out  for  irregular  morsels,  as  possessing  a 
relish.  These  he  distributed  now  and  then  to  the  ex- 
pectant circle,  by  holding  out  great  wedges  of  bread  and 
butter,  to  be  bitten  at  by  the  family  in  lawful  succes- 
sion, and  by  serving  out  small  doses  of  tea  in  like  man- 
ner with  a spoon  ; which  snanks  had  such  a relish  in  the 
mouths  of  these  young  Toodles,  that,  after  partaking  of 
the  same,  they  performed  private  dances  of  ecstasy 
among  themselves,  and  stood  on  one  leg  apiece,  and 
hopped,  and  indulged  in  other  saltatory  tokens  of  glad- 
ness. These  vents  for  their  excitement  found,  they 
gradually  closed  about  Mr.  Toodle  again,  and  eyed  him 
hard  as  he  got  through  more  bread  and  butter  and  tea  : 
affecting,  however,  to  have  no  further  expectations  of 
their  own  in  reference  to  those  viands,  but  to  be  convers- 
ing on  foreign  subjects,  and  whispering  confidentially. 

Mr.  Toodle,  in  the  midst  of  this  family  group,  and  set- 
ting an  awful  example  to  his  children  in  the  way  of  ap- 
petite, was  conveying  the  two  young  Toodles  on  his 
knees  to  Birmingham  by  special  engine,  and  was  con- 
templating the  rest  over  a barrier  of  bread  and  butter, 
when  Rob  the  Grinder,  in  his  sou’wester  hat  and  mourn- 
ing slops,  presented  himself,  and  v/as  received  with  a 
general  rush  of  brothers  and  sisters. 

‘‘  Well,  mother  ! ” said  Rob,  dutifully  kissing  her  ; 

how  are  you,  mother?  ” 

There’s  my  boy  ! ” cried  Polly,  giving  him  a hug, 
and  a pat  on  the  back.  Secret ! Bless  you,  father, 
not  he  ! ” 

This  was  intended  for  Mr.  Toodle’s  private  edification, 
but  Rob  the  Grinder,  whose  withers  were  not  un  wrung, 
caught  the  words  as  they  were  spoken. 

What  1 father’s  been  a saying  something  more  again 
me,  has  he  ? ” cried  the  injured  innocent.  Oh,  what  a 
hard  thing  it  is  that  when  a cove  has  once  gone  a little 
wrong,  a cove’s  own  father  should  he  always  a throwing 
it  in  his  face  behind  his  back  ! It’s  enough,”  cried  Rob, 
resorting  to  his  coat-cuff  in  anguish  of  spirit,  ‘'to  make 
a cove  go  and  do  something  out  of  spite  I” 


268 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“■My  poor  boy  !”  cried  Polly,  “father  didn’t  mean 
anything.” 

If  father  didn’t  mean  anything,”  blubbered  the  in- 
jured Grinder,  why  did  he  go  and  say  anything, 
mother  ? Nobody  tiiinks  half  so  bad  of  me  as  my  own 
father  does.  What  a unnatural  thing  ! I wish  some- 
body’d  take  and  chop  my  head  off.  Father  wouldn’t 
mind  doing  it,  I believe,  and  I’d  much  rather  he  did  that 
than  t’other.” 

At  these  desperate  words  all  the  young  Toodles 
shrieked ; a pathetic  effect,  which  the  Grinder  im- 
proved by  ironically  adjuring  them  not  to  cry  for  him, 
for  they  ought  to  hate  him,  they  ought,  if  they  was  good 
boys  and  girls  ; and  this  so  touched  the  youngest  Toodle 
but  one,  who  was  easily  moved,  that  it  touched  him  not 
only  in  his  spirit  but  in  his  wind  too  ; making  , him  so 
J)urple  that  Mr.  Toodle  in  consternation  carried  him  out 
to  the  water-butt,  and  would  have  put  him  under  the  tap, 
but  for  his  being  recovered  by  the  sight  of  that  instru- 
ment. 

Matters  having  reached  this  point,  Mr.  Toodle  ex. 
plained,  and  the  virtuous  feelings  of  his  son  being  there^ 
by  calmed,  they  shook  hands,  and  harmony  reigned 
again. 

‘‘Will  you  do  as  I do,  Biler,  my  boy?”  inquired  his 
father,  returning  to  his  tea  with  new  strength. 

“No,  thank’ee,  father.  Master  and  I had  tea  to- 
gether.” 

“ And  how  is  master.  Bob  ? ” said  Polly. 

“Well,  I don’t  know,  mother  ; not  much  to  boast  on. 
There  ain’t  no  bis’ness  done,  you  see.  He  don’t  know 
anything  about  it,  the  cap’en  don’t.  There  was  a man 
come  into  the  shop  this  very  day,  and  says  ‘ I want  a so- 
and-so,’  he  says — some  hard  name  or  another.  ‘A 
which  ? ’ says  the  cap’en.  ‘ A so-and-so,’  says  the  man. 
‘Brother,’  says  the  cap’en,  ‘will  you  take  a observation 
round  the  shop?’  Well,’  says  the  man,  ‘I’ve  done  it.’ 

‘ Do  you  see  wot  you  want  ? ’ says  the  cap’en.  ‘ No,  I 
don’t,’  says  the  man.  ‘ Do  you  know  it  wen  you  do  see 
it?’  ‘^ays  the  cap’en.  ‘No,  I don’t,’  says  the  man. 

‘ why,  then  I tell  you  w^ot,  my  lad,’ says  the  cap’en, 

‘ jOCl  d better  go  back  and  ask  wot  it’s  like,  outside,  for 
no  more  don’t  I ! ’” 

That  an’t  the  way  to  make  money,  though,  is  it?”, 
said  Polly. 

‘ ‘ Money,  mother  ! He’ll  never  make  money.  He  has 
such  ways  as  I never  see.  He  an’t  a bad  master  though. 
I’ll  say  that  for  him.  But  that  an’t  much  to  me,  for  I 
don’t  think  I shall  stop  at  him  long.” 

“ Not  stop  in  your  place,  Rob  ! ” cried  his  mother  : 
tvhile  Mr.  Toodle  opened  his  eyes. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


269 


Not  in  tlia.t  place,  p’raps/’  returned  the  Grinder,  with 
a wiuk.  “I  shouldn’t  wonder — friends  at  court  you 
know — but  never  you  mind,  mother,  just  now  ; I’m  all 
right,  that’s  all.” 

The  indisputable  proof  afforded  in  these  hints,  and  in 
the  Grinder’s  mysterious  manner,  of  his  not  being  sub- 
ject to  that  failing  which  Mr.  Toodle  had,  by  implication 
attributed  to  him,  might  have  led  to  a renewal  of  his 
v/rongs,  and  of  the  sensation  in  the  family,  but  for  the 
opportune  arrival  of  another  visitor,  who  to  Polly’s  great 
surprise,  appeared  at  the  door,  smiling  patronage  and 
friendship  on  all  there. 

How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Richards?”  said  Miss  Tox. 

‘ I have  come  to  see  you.  May  I come  in  ? ” 

The  cheery  face  of  Mrs.  Richards  shone  with  a hospi- 
table reply,  and  Miss  Tox,  accepting  the  proffered  chair 
and  gracefully  recognizing  Mr.  Toodle  on  her  way  to  it, 
untied  her  bonnet  strings,  and  said  that  in  the  first  place 
she  must  beg  the  dear  children,  one  and  all,  to  come  and 
kiss  her. 

The  ill-starred  youngest  Toodle  but  one,  who  would 
appear  from  the  frequency  of  his  domestic  troubles,  to 
have  been  born  under  an  unlucky  planet,  was  prevented 
from  performing  his  part  in  this  general  salutation  by  hav- 
ing fixed  the  sou’wester  hat  (with  which  he  had  been  pre- 
viously trifling)  deep  on  his  head,  hind  side  before,  and 
being  unable  to  get  it  off  again  ; which  accident  present- 
ing to  his  terrified  imagination  a dismal  picture  of  his 
passing  the  rest  of  his  days  in  darkness,  and  in  hopeless 
seclusion  from  his  friends  and  family,  caused  him  to 
struggle  with  great  violence,  and  to  utter  suffocating 
cries.  ' Being  released,  his  face  was  discovered  to  be  very 
hot,  and  red,  and  damp  ; and  Miss  Tox  took  him  on  her 
lap,  much  exhausted. 

You  have  almost  forgotten  me,  sir,  I dare  say  ? ” said 
Miss  Tox  to  Mr.  Toodle. 

'^No,  ma’am,  no,”  said  Toodle.  ''But  we’ve  all  on 
us  got  a little  older  since  then.” 

" And  how  do  you  find  yourself,  sir?”  inquired  Miss 
Tox  blandly. 

" Hearty,  ma’am,  thankee,”  replied  Toodle.  "How 
do  you  find  ^wrself,  ma’am.  Do  the  rheumaticks  keep 
off  pretty  well,  ma’am?  We  must  all  expect  to  grow 
into  ’em,  as  we  gets  on.” 

" Thank  you,”  said  Miss  Tox.  " I have  not  felt  any 
inconvenience  from  that  disorder  yet.” 

" You’re  wery  fortunate,  ma’am,”  returned  Mr.  Toodle. 
" Many  people  at  your  time  of  life,  ma’am,  is  martyrs  to 
it.  There  was  my  mother — ” But  catching  his  wife’s 
eye  here,  Mr.  Toodle  judiciously  buried  the  rest  in  am 
other  mug  of  tea. 


270 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


You  never  mean  to  saj,  Mrs.  Richards/^  cried' Miss 
ToX,  looking  at  Rob,  “ that  that  is  your—’' 

Eldest,  ma’am,”  said  Polly.  “ Yes,  indeed,  it  is. 
That’s  the  little  fellow,  ma’am,  that  was  the  innocent 
cause  of  so  much.” 

''This  here,  ma’am,”  said  Toodle,  "is  him  mth  the 
short  legs — and  they  was,”  said  Mr.  Toodle,  with  a 
touch  of  poetry  in  his  tone,  " unusual  short  for  leathers 
— as  Mr.  Dombey  made  a Grinder  on.” 

The  recollection  almost  overpowered  Miss  Tox.  The 
subject  of  it  had  a peculiar  interest  for  her  directly. 
She  asked  him  to  shake  hands,  and  congratulated  his 
mother  on  his  frank,  ingenuous  face.  Rob  over- 
hearing her,  called  up  a look,  to  justify  the  eulogium, 
but  it  was  hardly  the  right  look. 

" And  now,  Mrs.  Richards,”  said  Miss  Tox, — and  you 
too,  sir,”  addressing  Toodle — "I’ll  tell  you,  plainly  and 
truly,  what  I have  come  here  for.  You  may  be  aware, 
Mrs.  Richards — and,  possibly  you  may  be  aware  too,  sir — 
that  a little  distance  has  interposed  itself  between  me 
and  some  of  my  friends,  and  that  where  I used  to  visit 
a good  deal,  I do  not  visit  now.” 

Polly,  who,  with  a vroman’s  tact,  understood  this  at 
once,  expressed  as  much  in  a little  look.  Mr.  Toodle  who 
bad  not  the  faintest  idea  what  Miss  Tox  was  talking 
about  expressed  that  also,  in  a stare. 

" Of  course,”  said  Miss  Tox,  "how  our  little  coclne.ss 
has  arisen  is  of  no  moment,  and  does  not  require  to  be 
discussed.  It  is  sufficient  for  me  to  say,  that  I have  the 
greatest  possible  respect  for,  and  interest  in,  Mr.  Dom- 
bey ; ” Miss  Tox’s  voice  faltered  ; ‘ ‘ and  everything  that 
relates  to  him.” 

Mr.  Toodle,  enlightened,  shook  his  head,  and  said  he 
had  heerd  it  said,  and,  for  his  own  part,  he  did  think,  as 
Mr.  Dombey  was  a difficult  subject. 

"Pray  don’t  say  so,  sir,  if  you  please,”  returned  Miss 
Tox.  " Let  me  entreat  you  not  to  say  so,  sir,  either  now, 
or  at  any  future  time.  Such  observations  cannot  but  be 
Very  painful  to  me  ; and  to  a gentleman,  whose  mind  is 
constituted  as  I am  quite  sure  yours  is,  can  afford  no  per- 
manent satisfaction.” 

Mr.  Toodle.  who  had  not  entertained  the  least  doubt 
of  offering  a remark  that  would  be  received  with  acqui- 
escence, was  greatly  confounded. 

"All  that  I wish  to  say,  Mrs.  Richards,”  resumed  Miss 
Tox, — "and  I address  myself  to  you  too,  sir, — is  this. 
That  any  intelligence  of  the  proceedings  of  the  family, 
of  the  welfare  of  the  family,  of  the  health  of  the  family, 
that  reaches  you,  will  be  always  most  acceptable  to  me. 
That  I shall  be  always  very  glad  to  chat  with  Mrs.  Rich- 
ards about  the  family,  and  about  old  times.  And  as 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


271 


Mrs.  Richards  andl  never  had  the  least  difference  (though 
I could  wish  no V/ that  we  had  been  better  acquainted, but 
I have  no  one  but  myself  to  blame  for  that),  I hope  she  will 
not  object  to  our  being  very  good  friends  now,  and  to  my 
coming  backwards  and  forwards  here,  when  I like,  with- 
out being  a stranger.  Now,  I really  hope  Mrs.  Richards,'' 
said  Miss  Tox, earnestly,  ''that  you  will  take  this,as  I mean 
it,  like  a good-humoured  creature  as  you  alv/ays  were." 

Polly  was  gratihed,  and  showed  it.  Mr.  Toodle  didn’t 
know  whether  he  w^as  gratified  or  not,  and  preserved  a 
stolid  calmness. 

"You  see,  Mrs.  Richards,"  said  Miss  Tox — " and  I hope 
you  see  too,  sir — there  are  many  little  ways  in  which  I 
can  be  slightly  useful  to  you,  if  you  will  make  no  stran- 
ger of  me  ; and  in  which,  I shall  be  delighted  to  be  so. 
For  instance,  I can  teach  your  children  something.  I 
shall  bring  a few  little  books  if  you'll  allow  me,  and 
some  work,  and  of  an  evening  now  and  then,  they'll  learn 
— dear  me,  they'll  learn  a great  deal,  I trust,  and  be  a 
credit  to  their  teacher.” 

Mr.  Toodle,  who  had  a great  respect  for  learning, 
jerked  his  head  approvingly  at  his  wife,  and  moistened 
his  hands  with  dawning  satisfaction. 

' ' Then,  not  being  a stranger,  I shall  be  in  nobody's 
way,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "and  everything  will  go  on  just  as 
if  I were  not  here.  Mrs.  Richards  will  do  her  mending, 
or  hei  ironing,  or  her  nursing,  whatever  it  is,  without 
minding  me  : and  youTl  smoke  your  pipe,  too,  if  you're  so 
disposed,  sir,  won't  you  ? " 

"Thank'ee  mum,"  said  Mr.  Toodle.  '‘Yes  : I'll  take 
my  hit  of  backer.” 

"Very  good  of  you  to  say  so,  sir,"  rejoined  Miss  Tox, 
"and  I really  do  assure,  you  now,  unfeignedly,  that  ii 
will  be  a great  comfort  to  me,  and  that  whatever  good  I 
may  be  fortunate  enough  to  do  the  children,  you  will 
more  than  pay  hack  to  me,  if  you'll  enter  into  this  little 
bargain  comfortably,  and  easily,  and  good-naturedly, 
without  another  word  about  it." 

The  bargain  was  ratified  on  the  spot  ; and  Miss  Tox 
found  herself  so  much  at  home  already,  that  without- 
delay  she  instituted  a preliminary  examination  of  the 
children  all  round — which  Mr.  Toodle  much  admired-=- 
and  booked  their  ages,  names,  and  acquirements,  on  a 
piece  of  paper.  This  ceremony,  and  a little  attendant 
gossip,  prolonged  the  time  until  after  their  usual  hour 
of  going  to  bed,  and  detained  Miss  Tox  at  the  Toodle 
fireside  until  it  was  too  late  for  her  to  walk  home  alone. 
The  gallant  Grinder,  however,  being  still  there,  politely 
offered  to  attend  her  to  her  own  door  ; and  as  it  was 
something  to  Miss  Tox,  to  be  seen  home  by  a youth  whom 
Mr.  Pombey  had  first  inducted  into  those  manly  garments 


212 


WOEKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


whidi  are  rarely  mentioned  by  name,  she  very  readily 
accepted  the  proposal. 

After  shaking  hands  with  Mr.  Toodle  and  Polly,  and 
kissing  all  the  children.  Miss  Tox  left  the  house,  there- 
fore, with  unlimited  popularity,  and  carrying  away  with 
her  so  light  a heart  that  it  might  have  given  Mrs.  Chick 
offence  if  that  good  lady  could  have  w^eighed  it. 

Rob  the  Grinder,  in  his  modesty,  would  have  walked 
behind,  but  Miss  Tox  desired  him  to  keep  beside  her,  for 
conversational  purposes ; and,  as  she  afterwards  ex- 
pressed it  to  his  mother,  drew  him  out,”  upon  the  road. 

He  drew  out  so  bright,  and  clear,  and  shining,  that 
Miss  Tox  was  charmed  with  him.  The  more  Miss  Tox 
drew  him  out,  the  finer  he  came — like  wire.  There 
never  was  a better  or  more  promising  youth — a more 
affectionate,  steady,  prudent,  sober,  honest,  meek,  candid 
young  man — than  Rob  drew  out  that  night. 

I am  quite  glad,”  said  Miss  Tox,  arrived  at  her  own 
door,  ‘‘  to  know  you.  I hope  you’ll  consider  me  your 
friend,  and  that  you’ll  come  and  see  me  as  often  as  you 
like.  Do  you  keep  a money-box  ? ” 

‘'Yes  ma’am,”  returned  Rob  ; “ I’m  saving  up  against 
I’ve  got  enough  to  put  in  the  Bank,  ma’am.” 

“ Very  laudable  indeed,”  said  Miss  Tox.  “ I’m  glad 
to  hear  it.  Put  this  half  crown  into  it,  if  you  please.” 

“ Oh  thank  you,  ma’am,”  replied  Rob,  “ but  really  I 
couldn’t  think  of  depriving  you.” 

“I  commend  your  independent  spirit,”  said  Miss  Tox, 
“ but  it’s  no  deprivation,  I assure  you.  I shall  be  of- 
fended if  you  don’t  take  it,  as  a mark  of  my  good  wdll. 
Good  night,  Robin.” 

“ Good  night,  ma’am,”  said  Rob,  “ and  thank  you  ! ” 

Who  ran  sniggering  off  to  get  change,  and  tossed  it 
away  with  a pieman.  But  they  never  taught  honour  at 
the  Grinders’  School,  where  the  system  that  prevailed 
was  particularly  strong  in  the  engendering  of  hypocrisy. 
Insomuch,  that  many  of  the  friends  and  masters  of  past 
Grinders  said,  if  this  were  what  came  of  education  for 
the  common  people  let  us  have  none.  Some  more  ra- 
tionally said,  let  us  have  a better  one.  But,  the  govern- 
ing powers  of  the  Grinders’  Company  were  always  ready 
for  them,  by  picking  out  a few  boys  who  had  turned  out 
well,  in  spite  of  the  system,  and  roundly  asserting  that 
they  could  have  only  turned  out  well  because  of  it. 
Which  settled  the  business  of  those  objectors  out  of 
hand,  and  established  the  glory  of  the  Grinders’  Institu- 
tion. 


KAN  SNIGGERING  OFF  TO  GET  CHANGE,  AND  TOSSED  IT  AWAY 
WITH  A PIEMAN. 

— Dombey  and  Sou,  Vol.  Twelve,  page  IJiS. 


274 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

Further  Adventures  of  Captain  Edward  Cuttle^  Mariner. 

Time,  sure  of  foot  and  strong  of  will,  had  so  pressetj 
onward,  that  the  year  enjoined  by  the  old  Instrument- 
maker,  as  the  term  duidng  which  his  friend  should  re- 
frain from  opening  the  sealed  packet  accompanying 
the  letter  he  had  left  for  him,  was  now  nearly  expired, 
and  Captain  Cuttle  began  to  look  at  it  of  an  evening, 
with  feelings  of  mystery  and  uneasiness. 

The  captain,  in  his  honour,  would  as  soon  have  thou glifc 
of  opening  the  parcel  one  hour  before  the  expiration  .>f 
the  term,  as  he  would  have  thought  of  opening  himself, 
to  study  his  own  anatomy.  He  merely  brought  it  out, 
at  a certain  stage  of  his  first  evening  pipe,  laid  it  on  the 
table,  and  sat  gazing  at  the  outside  of  it,  through  the 
smoke,  in  silent  gravity,  for  two  or  three  hours  at  a spell. 
Sometimes,  when  he  had  contemplated  it  thus  for  a 
pretty  long  while,  the  captain  would  hitch  his  chair,  by 
degrees,  farther  and  farther  off,  as  if  to  get  beyond  the 
range  of  its  fascination  ; but  if  this  were  his  design,  he 
never  succeeded  : for  even  when  he  was  brought  up  by 
the  parlour  wall,  the  packet  still  attracted  lum  ; or  if 
his  eyes,  in  thoughtful  wandering  roved  to  the  ceiling 
or  the  fire,  its  image  immediately  followed,  and  posted 
itself  conspicuously  among  the  coals,  or  took  up  an  ad- 
vantageous position  on  the  whitewash. 

In  respect  of  Heart's  Delight,  the  captain's  parental 
regard  and  admiration  knew  no  change.  But,  since  his 
last  interview  with  Mr.  Carker,  Captain  Cuttle  had  come 
to  entertain  doubts  whether  his  former  intervention  in 
behalf  of  that  young  lady  and  his  dear  boy  Wal'r,  had 
proved  altogether  so  favourable  as  he  could  have  wished, 
and  as  he  at  the  time  believed.  The  captain  was 
troubled  with  a serious  misgiving  that  he  had  done  more 
harm  than  good,  in  short ; and  in  his  remorse  and  mod- 
esty he  made  the  best  atonement  he  could  think  of,  by 
putting  himself  out  of  the  way  of  doing  any  harm  to 
any  one,  and,  as  it  were,  throwing  himself  overboard  for 
a dangerous  person. 

Self-buried,  therefore,  among  the  instruments,  the 
captain  never  went  near  Mr.  Dombey’s  house,  or  reported 
himself  in  any  way  to  Florence  or  Miss  Nipper.  He 
even  severed  himself  from  Mr.  Perch,  on  the  occasion 
of  his  next  visit;  by  dryly  informing  that  gentleman, 
that  he  thanked  him  for  his  company,  but  had  cut  him- 
self adrift  from  all  such  acquaintance,  as  he  didn’t  know 
what  magazine  he  mightn’t  blow  up,  without  meaning 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


275 


of  it.  In  tMs  self-imposed  retirement,  tlie  captain 
passed  .whole  days  and  v/eeks  without  interchanging  a 
word  with  any  one  but  Rob  the  Grinder,  whom  he  es- 
teemed as  a pattern  of  disinterested  attachment  and 
fidelity.  In  this  retirement,  the  captain,  gazing  at  the 
packet  of  an  evening,  would  sit  smoking,  and  thinking 
of  Florence  and  poor  Walter,  until  they  both  seemed  to 
his  homely  fancy  to  be  dead,  and  to  have  passed  away 
into  eternal  youth,  the  beautiful  and  innocent  children 
of  his  first  remembrance. 

The  captain,  did  not,  however,  in  his  musings,  ne- 
glect his  own  improvement,  or  the  mental  culture  of 
Rob  the  Grinder.  That  young  man  was  generally  re- 
quired to  read  out  of  some  book  to  the  captain,  for  one 
hour  every  evening  ; and  as  the  captain  implicitly  be- 
lieved that  all  books  were  true,  he  accumulated,  by  this 
means,  many  remarkable  facts.  On  Sunday  nights,  the 
captain  always  read  for  himself,  before  going  to  bed,  a 
certain  Divine  Sermon  once  delivered  on  a Mount  ; and 
although  he  was  accustomed  to  quote  the  text,  without 
book,  after  his  own  manner,  he  appeared  to  read  it  with 
as  reverent  an  understanding  of  its  heavenly  spirit,  as 
if  he  had  got  it  all  by  heart  in  Greek,  and  had  been  able 
to  write  any  number  of  fierce  theological  disquisitions 
on  its  every  phrase. 

Rob  the  Grinder,  whose  reverence  for  the  inspired 
writings,  under  the  admirable  system  of  the  GrindeFs 
School,  had  been  developed  by  a perpetual  bruising  of 
his  intellectual  shins  against  all  the  proper  names  of  all 
the  tribes  of  Judah,  and  by  the  monotonous  repetition  of 
hard  verses,  especially  by  way  of  punishment,  and  by 
the  parading  of  him  at  six  years  old  in  leather  breeches 
three  times  a Sunday,  very  high  up,  in  a very  hot  church 
with  a great  organ  buzzing  against  his  drowsy  head, 
like  an  exceedingly  busy  bee — Rob  the  Grinder  made  a 
mighty  show  of  being  edified  when  the  captain  ceased 
to  read,  and  generally  yawned  and  nodded  while  the 
reading  was  in  progress.  The  latter  fact  being  never  so 
much  as  suspected  by  the  good  captain. 

Captain  Cuttle,  also,  as  a man  of  business,  took  to 
keeping  books.  In  these  he  entered  observations  on  the 
weather,  and  on  the  currents  of  the  waggons  and  other 
vehicles  : which  he  observed  in  that  quarter,  to  set 
westward  in  the  morning  and  during  the  greater  part  of 
the  day,  and  eastward  towards  the  evening.  Two  or 
three  stragglers  appearing  in  one  week,  who  spoke 
him  — so  the  captain  entered  it— -on  the  subject  of  spec, 
tacies,  and  who,  without  positively  purchasing,  said 
they  would  look  in  again,  the  captain  decided  that  the 
business  was  improving,  and  made  an  entry  in  the  day« 


276 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


book  to  tliat  effect ; the  wind  then  blowing  (wMcli  be 
brst  recorded)  pretty  fresh,  west  and  by  north  ; ‘ having 
changed  in  the  night. 

One  of  the  captain's  chief  difficulties  was  Mr.  Toots, 
ViTho  called  frequently,  and  who,  without  saying  much, 
seemed  to  have  an  idea  that  the  little  back  parlour  was 
an  eligible  room  to  chuckle  in,  as  he  would  sit  and  avail 
himself  of  its  accommodations  in  that  regard  by  the  half- 
hour  together,  without  at  all  advancing  in  Intimacy  with 
the  captain.  The  captain,  rendered  cautious  by  his  late 
experience,  was  unable  quite  to  satisfy  his  mind  whether 
Mr.  Toots  was  the  mild  subject  he  appeared  to  be,  or 
was  a profoundly  artful  and  dissimulating  hypocrite. 
His  frequent  reference  to  Miss  Hombey  was  suspicious, 
but  the  captain  had  a secret  kindness  for  Mr.  Toots's  ap- 
parent reliance  on  him,  and  forebore  to  decide  against  him 
for  the  present  ; merely  eyeing  him,  with  a sagacity  not  to 
be  described,  whenever  he  approached  the  subject  that 
was  nearest  to  his  heart. 

Captain  Gills,"  blurted  out  Mr.  Toots,  one  day  all  at 
once,  as  his  manner  was,  ‘‘  do  you  think  you  could  think 
favourably  of  that  proposition  of  mine,  and  give  me  the 
pleasure  of  your  acquaintance  ? " 

“Why,  I’ll  tell  you  what  it  is,  my  lad,"  replied  the 
captain,  who  had  at  length  concluded  on  a course  of 
action  ; “I've  been  turning  that  there,  over." 

“ Captain  Gills,  it's  very  kind  of  you,"  retorted  Mr. 
Toots.  “ I'm  much  obliged  to  you.  Upon  my  word  and 
honour,  Captain  Gills,  it  would  be  a charity  to  give  me 
the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance.  It  really  would." 

“You  see,  brother,”  argued  the  captain  slowly,  “I 
don’t  know  you." 

“But  you  never  can  know  me.  Captain  Gills,”  replied 
Mr.  Toots,  steadfast  to  his  point,  “ if  you  don't  give  me 
the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance. " 

The  captain  seemed  struck  by  the  originality  and 
power  of  this  remark,  and  looked  at  Mr.  Toots  as  if  he 
thought  there  w^as  a great  deal  more  in  him  than  he  had 
expected. 

“ Well  said,  my  lad,”  observed  the  captain,  nodding 
his  head  thoughtfully  ; “and  true.  Now  look'ee  here  : 
You’ve  made  some  observations  to  me,  w^hich  gives  me 
to  understand  as  you  admire  a certain  sweet  creetur. 
Hey?" 

“ Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  gesticulating  vio- 
lently wdth  the  hand  in  which  he  held  his  hat,  “ Admi- 
ration is  not  the  word.  Upon  my  honour,  you  have  no 
conception  what  my  feelings  are.  If  I could  be  dyed 
black,  and  made  Miss  Dombey's  slave,  I should  consi 
der  it  a compliment.  If,  at  the  sacrifice  of  all  my  proper- 
ty, 1 could  get  transmigrated  into  Miss  Dombey's  dog— 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


277 


I — I — really  think  I should  never  leave  off  wagging  my 
tail.  I should  be  so  perfectly  happy.  Captain  Ghlls  I ” 

Mr.  Toots  said  it  with  watery  eyes,  and  pressed  his 
hat  against  his  bosom  with  deep  emotion. 

My  lad,’’  returned  the  captain,  moved  to  compassion, 

If  you’re  in  amest — ” 

"‘Captain  Gills,”  cried  Mr.  Toots,  “I’m  in  such  a 
state  of  mind,  and  am  so  dreadfully  in  earnest,  that  if  I 
could  swear  to  it,  upon  a hot  piece  of  iron,  or  a live  coal, 
or  melted  lead,  or  burning  sealing-wax,  or  anything  of 
that  sort,  I should  be  glad  to  hurt  myself,  as  a relief  to 
my  feelings.”  And  Mr.  Toots  looked  hurriedly  about 
the  room,  as  if  for,  some  sufficiently  painful  means  of  ac- 
complishing his  dread  purpose. 

The  captain  pushed  his  glazed  hat  back  upon  his  head, 
stroked  his  face  down  with  his  heavy  hand — making  his 
nose  more  mottled  in  the  process — and  planting  himself 
before  Mr.  Toots,  and  hooking  him  by  the  lappel  of  his 
coat,  addressed  him  in  these  words,  while  Mr.  Toots 
looked  up  into  his  face  with  much  attention  and  some 
wonder. 

“If  you’re  in  arnest,  you  see,  my  lad,”  said  the  cap- 
tain, “ you’re  a object  of  clemency,  and  clemency  is  the 
brightest  jewel  in  the  crown  of  a Briton’s  head,  for  which 
you’ll  overhaul  the  constitution,  as  laid  down  in  Rule 
Britannia,  and  when  found,  that  is  the  charter  as  them 
garden  angels  was  a singing  of,  so  many  times  over. 
Btand  by  I This  here  proposal  o’  your’n  takes  me  a lit- 
tle aback.  And  why  ? Because  I holds  my  own  only, 
you  understand,  in  these  here  waters,  and  haven’t  got 
no  consort,  and  may  be  don’t  wish  for  none.  Steady  ! 
You  hailed  me  first,  along  of  a certain  young  lady,  as  you 
was  chartered  by.  Now  if  you  and  me  is  to  keep  one 
another’s  company  at  all,  that  there  young  creatur’s 
name  must  never  be  named  nor  referred  to.  I don’t 
know  what  harm  mayn’t  have  been  done  by  naming  it 
too  free  afore  now,  and  thereby  I bring  up  short.  D’ye 
make  me  out  pretty  clear,  brother?” 

“ ¥/ell,  you’ll  excuse  me.  Captain  Gills,”  replied  Mr. 
Toots,  “ if  I don’t  quite  follow  you  sometimes.  But 
upon  my  word  I — it’s  a hard  thing.  Captain  Gills,  not  to 
be  able  to  mention  Miss  Dombey.  I really  have  got  such 
a dreadful  load  here  ! ” — Mr.  Toots  pathetically  touched 
his  shirt-front  with  both  hands — “ that  I feel  night  and 
day  exactly  as  if  somebody  was  sitting  upon  me.” 

“Them,”  said  the  captain,  ""  is  the  terms  I offer.  If 
they’re  hard  upon  you,  brother,  as  mayhap  they  are, 
give  ’em  a wide  berth,  sheer  off,  and  part  company 
cheerily  ! ” 

“ Captain  Gills,”  returned  Mr.  Toots,  “ I hardly  know 
how  it  is,  but  after  what  you  told  me  when  I came  here 


278 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


for  tlie  first  time,  I-~I  feel'  that  Fd  rather  think  abou'f 
Miss  Dombey  in  your  society  than  talk  about  her  in  al- 
most anybody  else's.  Therefore,  Captain  Gills,  if  you’ll 
give  me  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance,  I shall  be 
very  happy  to  accept  it  on  your  own  conditions.  I wish 
to  be  honourable,  Captain  Gills,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  hold- 
ing back  his  extended  hand  for  a moment,  ''  and  there- 
fore I am  obliged  to  say  that  I can  not  help  thinking 
about  Miss  Dombey.  It’s  impossible  for  me  to  make  a 
promise  not  to  think  of  her.” 

“My  lad,”  said  the  captain,  whose  opinion  of  Mr. 
Toots  was  much  improved  by  this  candid  avowal, 
man’s  thoughts  is  like  the  winds,  and^  nobody  can’t  an- 
swer for  ’em  for  certain,  any  length  of  time  together. 
Is  it  a treaty  as  to  words  ? ” 

“As  to  words.  Captain  Gills,”  returned  Mr.  TootS; 
" I think  I can  bind  myself.” 

Mr.  Toots  gave  Captain  Cuttle  his  hand  upon  it,  then 
and  there  ; and  the  captain,  with  a pleasant  and  gracious 
show  of  condescension,  bestowed  his  acquaintance  upon 
him  formally.  Mr.  Toots  seemed  much  relieved  and 
gladdened  by  the  acquisition,  and  chuckled  rapturously 
during  the  remainder  of  his  visit.  The  captain,  for  his 
part,  was  not  ill  pleased  to  occupy  that  position  of  pat- 
ronage, and  was  exceedingly  well  satisfied  by  his  own 
prudence  and  foresight. 

But  rich  as  Captain  Cuttle  was  in  the  latter  quality, 
he  received  a surprise  that  same  evening  from  a no  less 
ingenuous  and  simple  youth,  than  Rob  the  Grinder.  That 
artless  lad,  drinking  tea  at  the  same  table,  and  bending 
meekly  over  his  cup  and  saucer,  having  taken  sidelong 
observations  of  his  master  for  some  time,  who  was  read- 
ing the  newspaper  with  great  difficulty,  but  much  dig- 
nity through  his  glasses,  broke  silence  by  saying — 

“ Oh  ! 1 beg  your  pardon,  captain,  but  you  mayn’t 

be  in  want  of  any  pigeons,  may  you,  sir  ?” 

“ JTo,  my  lad,”  replied  the  captain. 

“Because  I was  wishing  to  dispose  of  mine,  captain,” 
said  Rob. 

“Ay,  ay?”  cried  the  captain,  lifting  up  bis  bushy 
eyebrows  a little. 

“Yes,  I’m  going,  captain,  if  you  please,”  said  Rob. 

Going  ? Where  are  you  going  ?”  asked  the  captain, 
looking  round  at  him  over  the  glasses. 

“ What?  didn’t  you  know  that  I was  going  to  leave 
you,  captain  ? ” asked  Rob,  with  a sneaking  smile. 

The  captain  put  down  the  paper,  took  oft  his  specta- 
cles, and  brought  his  eyes  to  bear  on  the  deserter. 

“ Oh  yes  captain,  I am  going  to  give  you  warning.  I 
thought  you’d  have  known  that  beforehand,  perhaps,” 
said  Rob,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  getting  up.  “ If  you 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


279 


could  be  so  good'  as  provide  yourself  soon,  captain,  it 
would  be  a great  convenience  to  me.  You  couldn’t  pro- 
vide yourself  by  to-morrow  morning,  I am  afraid,  cap 
tain  ; could  you,  do  you  think  ? ” 

And  you’re  a going  to  desert  your  colours  are  you, 
my  lad?”  said  the  captain,  after  a long  examination  of 
his  face. 

Oh,  it’s  very  hard  upon  a cove,  captain,”  cried  the 
tender  Rob,  injured  and  indignant  in  a moment,  that 
he  can’t  give  lawful  warning,  without  being  frowned  at 
in  that  way,  and  called  a deserter.  You  haven’t  any 
right  to  call  a poor  cove  names,  captain.  It  an’t  because 
I’m  a servant  and  you’re  a master,  that  you’re  to  go  and 
libel  me.  What  wrong  have  I done  ? Come,  captain, 
let  me  know  what  my  crime  is,  will  you  ?” 

The  stricken  Grinder  wept,  and  put  his  coat-cuff  in  his 
eye. 

•‘Come,  captain,”  cried  the  injured  youth,  “give  my 
crime  a name  ! What  have  I been  and  done  ? Have  I 
stolen  any  of  the  property  ? Have  I set  the  house  a-fire  ? 
If  I have,  why  don’t  you  give  me  in  charge,  and  try  it? 
But  to  take  away  the  character  of  a lad  that’s  been  a good 
servant  to  you,  because  he  can’t  afford  to  stand  in  his  own 
light  for  your  good,  what  a injury  it  is,  and  what  a bad 
return  for  faithful  service  ! This  is  the  way  young  coves 
is  spiled  and  drove  wrong.  I wonder  at  you,  captain,  I 
do.” 

All  of  which,  the  Grinder  howled  forth  in  a.lachrymose 
whine,  and  backing  carefully  towards  the  door. 

“ And  so  you’ve  got  another  berth,  have  you,  my  lad  ?” 
said  the  captain,  eyeing  him  intently. 

“Yes,  captain,  since  you  put  it  in  that  shape,  I ham 
got  another  berth,”  cried  Rob,  backing  more  and  more  ; 
“ a better  berth  than  I’ve  got  here,  and  one  where  I don’t 
so  much  as  want  your  good  word,  captain,  wdiich  is  for- 
t’nate  for  me,  after  all  the  dirt  you’ve  throw’d  at  me, 
because  I’m  poor,  and  can’t  afford  to  stand  in  my  own 
light  for  your  good.  Yes,  I ham  got  another  berth  ; and 
if  it  wasn’t  for  leaving  you  unprovided,  captain,  I’d  go 
to  it  now,  sooner  than  I’d  take  them  names  from  you, 
because  I’m  poor,  and  can’t  afford  to  stand  in  my  own 
light  for  your  good.  Why  do  you  reproach  me  for  being 
poor,  and  not  standing  in  my  own  light  for  your  good, 
captain  ? How  can  you  so  demean  yourself  ? ” 

“ Look  ye  here,  my  boy,”  replied  the  peaceful  captain. 
“ Don’t  you  pay  out  no  more  of  them  words.” 

“ Well,  then,  don’t  you  pay  in  no  more  of  your  words, 
captain,”  retorted  the  roused  innocent,  getting  louder  in 
his  whine,  and  backing  into  the  shop.  “ I’d  sooner  you 
took  my  blood  than  my  character/’ 


280  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“Because,”  pursued  tlie  captain  calniiy,  ^^you  have 
heerd,  may  be,  of  such  a thing  as  a rope's  end.  ” 

*‘Oh,  have  I though,  captain?"  cried  the  taunting 
Grinder.  '"No  I haven't.  I never  heerd  of  any  such  a 
article  ! '' 

Well,”  said  the  captrin,  it's  my  belief  as  you’ll 
know  more  about  it  pretty  soon,  if  you  don't  keep  a 
bright  look  out.  I can  read  your  signals,  my  lad.  You 
may  go.” 

Oh  ! I may  go  at  once,  may  I,  captain  ?”  cried  Rob, 
exulting  in  his  success.  ""But  mind  ! I never  asked  to 
go  at  once,  captain.  You  are  not  to  take  away  my  char- 
acter again,  because  you  send  me  off  of  your  own  accord. 
And  you're  not  to  stop  any  of  my  wages,  captain  ! ” 

His  employer  settled  the  last  point  by  producing  the 
tin  canister  and  telling  the  Grinder's  money  out  in  full 
upon  the  table.  Rob,  snivelling  and  sobbing,  and  griev- 
ously wounded  in  bis  feelings,  took  up  the  pieces  one  by 
one,  with  a sob  and  a snivel  for  each,  and  tied  them  up 
separately  in  knots  in  his  pocket-handkerchief  ; then 
he  ascended  to  the  roof  of  the  house  and  filled  his  hat 
and  pockets  with  pigeons  : then,  came  down  to  his  bed 
under  the  counter  and  made  up  his  bundle,  snivelling 
and  sobbing  louder,  as  if  he  w^ere  cut  to  the  heart  by  old 
associations  ; then  be  whined,  “ Good  night,  captain,  I 
leave  you  without  malice  ! ” and  then,  going  out  upon 
the  door-step,  pulled  the  little  midshipman's  nose  as  a 
parting  indignity,  and  went  away  down  the  street  grim 
ning  triumph. 

The  captain,  left  to  himself,  resumed  his  perusal  of 
the  news  as  if  nothing  unusual  or  unexpected  had  taken 
place,  and  went  reading  on  with  the  greatest  assiduity. 
But  never  a word  did  Captain  Cuttle  understand,  though 
he  read  a vast  number,  for  Rob  the  Grinder  was  scamper- 
ing up  one  column  and  down  another  all  through  the 
newspaper. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  the  worthy  captain  had  ever 
felt  himself  quite  abandoned  until  now  ; but  now,  old 
Sol  Gills,  Walter,  and  Heart's  Delight  were  lost  to  him 
indeed,  and  now  Mr.  Carker  deceived  and  jeered  him 
cruelly.  They  were  all  represented  in  the  false  Rob,  to 
whom  he  had  held  forth  many  a time  on  the  recollections 
that  were  warm  within  him  ; he  had  believed  in  the 
false  Rob,  and  had  been  glad  to  believe  in  him  ; he  had 
made  a companmn  of  him  as  the  last  of  the  old  ship's 
company  he  had  taken  the  command  of  the  little  mid- 
shipman with  him  at  his  right  hand  ; he  had  meant  to 
do  his  duty  by  him,  and  had  felt  almost  as  kindly  to- 
wards the  boy  as  if  they  had  been  shipwrecked  and  cast 
upon  a desert  place  together.  And  now  that  the  false 
Rob  had  brought  distrust,  treachery,  meanness  into  the 


DOMBEY  ANB  SON. 


281 


very  parlour,  which  was  a kind  of  sacred  place.  Captain 
Cuttle  felt  as  if  the  parlour  might  have  gone  down  next, 
and  not  surprised  him  much  by  its  sinking,  or  given  him 
any  very  great  concern. 

Therefore  Captain  Cuttle  read  the  newspaper  with 
profound  attention  and  no  comprehension,  and  therefore 
Captain  Cuttle  said  nothing  whatever  about  Rob  to  him- 
self, or  admitted  to  himself  that  he  was  thinking  about 
him,  or  would  recognize  in  the  most  distant  manner  that 
Rob  had  anything  to  do  with  his  feeling  as  lonely  as 
Robinson  Crusoe. 

In  the  same  composed,  business-like  way,  the  captain 
stepped  over  to  Leadenhall  Market  in  the  dusk,  and  ef- 
fected an  arrangement  with  a private  watchman  on  duty 
there,  to  come  and  put  up  and  take  down  the  shutters  of 
the  Wooden  Midshipman  every  night  and  morning.  He 
then  called  in  at  the  eating-house  to  diminish  by  one 
half  the  daily  rations  theretofore  supplied  to  the  mid- 
shipman, and  at  the  public-house  to  stop  the  traitor’s 
beer.  ‘‘  My  young  man,”  said  the  captain,  in  explana- 
tion to  the  young  lady  at  the  bar,  ‘‘  my  young  man  hav- 
ing bettered  himself,  miss.”  Lastly,  the  captain  re- 
solved to  take  possession  of  the  bed  under  the  counter, 
and  to  turn-in  there  o’  nights  instead  of  up -stairs,  as 
sole  guardian  of  the  property. 

From  this  bed  Captain  Cuttle  daily  rose  henceforth, 
and  clapped  on  his  glazed  hat  at  six  o’clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, with  the  solitary  air  of  Crusoe  finishing  his  toilet 
with  his  goat-skin  cap  ; and  although  his  fears  of  a visi- 
tation from  the  savage  tribe,  MacStinger,  were  some- 
what cooled,  as  similar  apprehensions  on  the  part  of  that 
lone  mariner  used  to  be  by  the  lapse  of  a long  interval 
without  any  symptoms  of  the  cannibals,  he  still  observed 
a regular  routine  of  defensive  operations,  and  never  en- 
countered a bonnet  without  a previous  survey  from  his 
castle  of  retreat.  In  the  meantime  (during  which  he  re- 
ceived no  call  from  Mr.  Toots,  who  wrote  to  say  he  was 
out  of  town)  his  own  voice  began  to  have  a strange 
sound  in  his  ears  : and  he  acquired  such  habits  of  pro- 
found meditation  from  much  polishing  and  stowing  away 
of  the  stock,  and  from  much  sitting  behind  the  counter 
reading,  or  looking  out  of  window,  that  the  red  rim 
made  on  his  forehead  by  the  hard  glazed  hat,  sometimes 
ached  again  with  excess  of  reflection. 

The  year  being  now  expired,  Captain  Cuttle  deemed  it 
expedient  to  open  the  packet ; but  as  he  had  always  de- 
signed doing  this  in  the  presence  of  Rob  the  Grinder, 
who  had  brought  it  to  him,  and  as  he  had  an  idea  that 
it  would  be  regular  and  ship-shape  to  open  it  in  the 
presence  of  somebody,  he  was  sadly  put  to  it  for  want 
of  a witness.  In  this  difficulty,  he  hailed  one  day  with 


282 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


nnusual  delight  the  announceirient  in  the  Shipping  In- 
telligence of  the  arrival  of  the  Cautions  Clara,  Captain 
John  Bunsby,  from  a coasting  voyage  ; and  to  that  phil- 
osopher immediately  despatched  a letter  by  post,  enjoin- 
ing inviolable  secrecy  as  to  his  place  of  residence,  and 
requesting  to  be  favoured  with  an  early  visit,  in  the 
evening  season. 

Bunsby,  who  was  one  of  those  sages  who  act  upon 
conviction,  took  some  days  to  get  the  conviction  tho- 
roughly into  his  mind,  that  he  had  received  a letter  to 
this  efect.  But,  when  he  had  grappled  with  the 
fact  and  mastered  it,  he  promptly  sent  his  boy  with  the 
message,  ‘‘He’s  a coming  to-night.”  Who,  being  in- 
structed to  deliver  those  words  and  disappear,  fulfilled 
his  mission  like  a tarry  spirit  charged  with  a mysterious 
warning. 

The  captain,  well  pleased  to  receive  it,  made  prepara- 
tion of  pipes  and  rum  and  water,  and  awaited  his  visitor 
in  the  back  parlour.  At  the  hour  of  eight,  a deep  low- 
ing, as  of  a nautical  bull,  outside  the  shop-door,  succeed 
ed  by  the  knocking  of  a stick  on  the  panel,  announced 
to  the  listening  ear  of  Captain  Cuttle,  that  Bunsby  was 
alongside  ; whom  he  instantly  admitted,  shaggy  and 
loose,  and  with  his  stolid  mahogany  visage,  as  usual, 
appearing  to  have  no  consciousness  of  anything  before 
it,  but  to  be  attentively  observing  something  that  was 
taking  place  in  quite  another  part  of  the  world. 

“Bunsby,”  said  the  captain,  grasping  him  by  the 
hand,  “ what  cheer,  my  lad,  what  cheer  ?” 

“ Shipmet,”  replied  the  voice  within  Bunsby,  unac- 
companied by  any  sign  on  the  part  of  the  commander 
himself,  “Hearty,  hearty.” 

“ Bunsby  ! ” said  the  captain,  rendering  irrepressible 
homage  to  his  genius,  “ here  you  are  ! a man  as  can 
give  an  opinion  as  is  brighter  than  diamonds — and  give 
me  the  lad  with  the  tarry  trousers  as  shines  to  me  like 
di’monds  bright,  for  which  you’ll  overhaul  the  Stanf ell’s 
Budget,  and  when  found  make  a note.  Here  you  are,  a 
man  as  gave  an  opinion  in  this  here  very  place,  that  has 
come  true,  every  letter  on  it,”  which  the  captain  sincere- 
ly believed. 

“Ay,  ay?”  growled  Bunsby. 

“Every  letter,”  said  the  captain. 

“For  vdiy?”  growled  Bunsby,  looking  at  his  friend 
for  the  first  time.  “Which  way?  If  so,  why  not? 
Therefore.”  With  these  oracular  words — they  seemed 
almost  to  make  the  captain  giddy  ; they  launcbed  him 
upon  such  a sea  of  speculation  and  conjecture — the  sage 
submitted  to  be  helped  olf  with  his  pilot-coat,  and  ac- 
companied his  friend  into  the  back  parlour,  where  his 
hand  presently  alighted  on  rum-bottle,  from  which 


DOMBET  AND  SON. 


383 


h3  brewed  a stiff’  glass  of  grog  ; and  presently  after- 
wards on  a pipe,  wbich  lie  filled,  lighted,  and  began  to 
smoke. 

Captain' Cuttle,  imitating  his  visitor  in  the  matter  of 
these  particulars,  though  the  rapt  and  imperturbable 
manner  of  the  great  commander  was  far  above  his 
powers,  sat  in  the  opposite  corner  of  the  fireside,  observ- 
ing him  respectfully,  and  as  if  he  waited  for  some  en- 
couragement or  expression  of  curiosity  on  Bunsby’s  part 
which  should  lead  him  to  his  own  affairs.  But  as  the 
maJiogaiiy  philosopher  gave  no  evidence  of  being  senti- 
ent of  anj^thing  but  warmth  and  tobacco,  except  once, 
when  taking  his  pipe  from  his  lips  to  make  room  for  his 
glass,  he  incidentally  remarked  with  exceeding  gruff- 
ness, that  his  name  was  Jack  Bunsby — a declaration  that 
presented  but  small  opening  for  conversation — the  cap- 
tain bespeaking  his  attention  in  a short  complimentary 
exordium,  narrated  the  whole  history  of  Uncle  Sol’s  de- 
parture, with  the  change  it  had  produced  in  his  own  life 
and  fortunes ; and  concluded  by  placing  the  packet  on 
the  table. 

After  a long  pause  Mr.  Bunsby  nodded  his  head. 

“ Open  ? ” said  the  captain. 

Bunsby  nodded  again. 

The  captain  accordingly  broke  the  seal,  and  disclosed 
to  view  two  folded  papers,  of  which  he  severally  read  the 
indorsements,  thus  : '‘Last  Will  and  Testament  of  Sol- 
omon Gills.”  "Letter  for  Ned  Cuttle.” 

Bunsby,  with  his  eye  on  the  coast  of  Greenland, 
seemed  to  listen  for  the  contents.  The  captain  there- 
fore hemmed  to  clear  his  throat,  and  read  the  letter 
aloud. 

" ‘ My  dear  Ned  Cuttle.  When  I left  home  for  the 
West  Indies’” — 

Here  the  captain  stopped,  and  looked  hard  at  Bunsby, 
who  looked  fixedly  at  the  coast  of  Greenland. 

— " ' in  forlorn  search  of  intelligence  of  my  dear  boy, 
I knew  that  if  you  v/ere  acquainted  with  my  design,  you 
would  thwart  it,  or  accompany  me  ; and  therefore  I kept 
it  secret.  If  you  ever  read  this  letter,  Ned,  I am  likely 
to  he  dead.  You  will  easily  forgive  an  old  friend’s  folly 
then,  and  will  feel  for  the  restlessness  and  uncertainty 
in  which  he  wandered  away  on  such  a wild  voyage.  So 
no  more  of  that.  I have  little  hope  that  my  poor  boy 
will  ever  read  these  words,  or  gladden  your  eyes  with 
the  sight  of  his  frank  face  any  more.’  No,*  no;  no 
more,”  said  Captain  Cuttle,  sorrowfully  meditating.* 
“'‘no  more.  There  he  lays,  all  his  days — ” 

Mr.  Bunsby,  who  had  a musical  ear,  suddenly  bel- 
lowed, " In  the  Bays  of  Biscay,  O I”  which  so  affected 


284 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


the  good  captain,  as  an  appropriate  tribute  to  departed 
•worth,  that  he  shook  him  by  the  hand  in  acknowledg- 
ment, and  was  fain  to  wipe  his  eyes. 

Well,  well  ! ’’  said  the  captain  with  a sigh,  as  the 
lament  of  Bunsby  ceased  to  ring  and  vibrate  in  the  sky- 
light. Affliction  sore,  long  time  he  bore,  and  let  us 
overhaul  the  wollum,  and  there  find  it. 

‘"Physicians,’'  observed  Bunsby,  “was  in  vain.” 

“ Ay,  ay,  to  be  sure,”  said  the  captain,  “ what’s  the 
good  b’  them  in  two  or  three  hundred  fathom  o’  water  ! ” 
Then,  returning  to  the  letter,  he  read  on  : — “ ‘ But  if  he 
should  be  by,  when  it  is  opened  ; the  captain  invol- 
untarily looked  round,  and  shook  his  head  ; “ ‘ or  should 
know  of  it  at  any  other  time  ; ’ ” the  captain  shook  his 
head  again  ; “ ‘ my  blessing  on  him  I In  case  the  accom- 
panying paper  is  not  legally  written,  it  matters  very 
little,  for  there  is  no  one  interested  but  you  and  he,  and 
my  plain  wish  is,  that  if  he  is  living  he  should  have 
what  little  there  may  be,  and  if  (as  I fear)  otherwise, 
that  you  should  have  it,  Ned.  You  vrill  respect  my 
wish,  I know.  God  bless  you  for  it,  and  for  ail  your 
friendliness  besides,  to  Solomon  Gills.’  Bunsby!” 
said  the  captain,  appealing  to  him  solemnly,  “ what  do 
you  make  of  this?  There  you  sit,  a man  as  has  had  his 
head  broke  from  infancy  up’ards,  and  has  got  a new 
opinion  into  it  at  every  seam  as  has  been  opened.  Now 
what  do  you  make  o’  this  ?” 

“If  so  be,”  returned  Bunsby,  with  unusual  prompti- 
tude, “ as  he’s  dead,  my  opinion  is  he  won’t  come  back 
no  more.  If  so  be  as  he’s  alive,  my  opinion  is  he  will. 
Do  I say  he  will  ? No.  Why  not  ? Because  the  bear- 
ings of  this  obserwation  lays  in  the  application  on  it.” 

“ Bunsby  1 ” said  Captain  Cuttle,  who  would  seem  to 
have  estimated  the  value  of  his  distinguished  friend’s 
opinions  in  proportion  to  the  immensity  of  the  difficulty 
he  experienced  in  making  anything  out  of  them  ; 
“ Bunsby,”  said  ihe  captain,  quite  confounded  by  admira- 
tion, “you  carry  a weight  of  mind  easy,  as  would  swamp 
one  of  my  tonnage  soon.  But  in  regard  o’  this  here  will, 
I don’t  mean  to  take  no  steps  towards  the  property — 
Ix)rd  forbid  ! — except  to  keep  it  for  a more  rightful 
owner  ; and  I hope  yet  as  the  rightful  owner,  Sol  Gills, 
is  living  and’ll  come  back,  strange  as  it  is  that  he  ain’t 
forwarded  no  despatches.  Now,  what  is  your  opinion, 
Bunsby,  as  to  stowing  of  these  here  papers  away  again, 
and  marking  outside  as  they  was  opened,  such  a day,  in 
presence  of  John  Bunsby  and  Ed’ard  Cuttle  ? ” 

Bunsby,  descrying  no  objection,  on  the  coast  of  Green- 
land or  elsewhere,  to  this  proposal,  it  was  carried  into 
execution  ; and  that  great  man,  bringing  his  eye  into  the 
present  for  a moment,  affixed  his  sign-manual  to  the 


BOMBEY  AND  SON. 


285 


cover,  totally  abstainfng,  witli  characteristic  modesty, 
from  the  use  of  capital  letters.  Captain  Cuttle,  having 
attached  his  own  left-handed  signature,  and  locked  up 
the  packet  in  the  iron  safe,  entreated  his  guest  to  mix 
another  glass  and  smoke  another  pipe  ; and  doing  the 
like  himself,  fell  a musing  over  the  fire  on  the  possible 
fortunes  of  the  poor  old  Instrument-maker. 

And  now  a surprise  occurred,  so  overwhelming  and  ter- 
rific that  Captain  Cuttle,  unsupported  by  the  presence  of 
Bunsby,  must  have  sunk  beneath  it,  and  been  a lost  man 
from  that  fatal  hour. 

How  the  captain,  even  in  the  satisfaction  of  admitting 
such  a guest,  could  have  only  shut  the  door  and  not 
locked  it,  of  which  negligence  he  was  undoubtedly 
guilty,  is  one  of  those  questions  that  must  for  ever  re- 
main mere  points  of  speculation,  or  vague  charges 
against  destiny.  But,  by  that  unlocked  door,  at  this 
quiet  moment,  did  the  fell  MacStinger  dash  into  the 
parlour,  bringing  Alexander  MacStinger  in  her  parental 
arms,  and  confusion  and  vengeance  (not  to  mention 
Juliana  MacStinger,  and  the  sweet  child’s  brother, 
Charles  MacStinger,  popularly  known  about  the  scenes 
of  his  youthful  sports,  as  Chowley)  in  her  train.  She 
came  so  swiftly  and  so  silently,  like  a rushing  air  from 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  East  India  Docks,  that  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  found  himself  in  the  very  act  of  sitting 
looking  at  her,  before  the  calm  face  with  which  he 
had  been  meditating,  changed  to  one  of  horror  and 
dismay. 

But,  the  moment  Captain  Cuttle  understood  the  full 
extent  of  his  misfortune,  self-preservation  dictated  an 
attempt  at  flight.  Darting  at  the  little  door  which 
opened  from  the  parlour  on  the  steep  little  range  of 
cellar-steps,  the  captain  made  a rush,  head  foremost, 
at  the  latter,  like  a man  indifferent  to  bruises  and  con- 
tusions, who  only  sought  to  hide  himself  in  the  bow- 
els of  the  earth.  In  this  gallant  effort  he  would  prob- 
ably have  succeeded,  but  for  the  affectionate  dispositions 
of  Juliana  and  Chowley,  who  pinning  him  by  the  legs 
— one  of  those  dear  children  holding  on  to  each—' 
claimed  him  as  their  friend,  with  lamentable  cries. 
In  the  meantime,  Mrs.  MacStinger,  who  never  entered 
upon  any  action  of  importance  without  previously  in- 
verting Alexander  MacStinger,  to  bring  him  within 
the  range  of  a brisk  battery  of  slaps,  and  then  sitting 
him  down  to  cool  as  the  reader  first  beheld  him,  per- 
formed that  solemn  rite,  as  if  on  this  occasion  it  were 
a sacrifice  to  the  Furies  ; and  having  deposited  the 
victim  on  the  floor,  made  at  the  captain  with  a strength 
of  purpose  that  appeared  to  threaten  scratches  to  the  in- 
terposing Bunsby. 


. 286 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Tlie  cries  of  tlie  two  elder  MacStingers,  and  the  wail- 
ing of  young  Alexander,  who  may  be  said  to  have  passed 
a piebald  cliildbood,  forasmuch  as  he  was  black  in  the 
face  during  one  half  of  that  fairy  period  of  existence, 
combined  to  make  this  visitation  the  more  awful.  But 
when  silence  reigned  again,  and  the  captain,  in  a vio- 
lent perspiration,  stood  meekly  looking  at  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger,  its  terrors  were  at  their  height. 

‘‘Oh,  Cap’en  Cuttle,  Cap’en  Cuttle  ! ’’ said  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger,  making  her  chin  rigid,  and  shaking  it  in  unison 
with  Avhat,  but  for  the  weakness  of  her  sex,  might  be  de- 
scribed as  her  fist.  “Oh,  Cap'en  Cuttle,  Cap’en  Cuttle,' 
do  you  dare  to  look  at  me  in  the  face,  and  not  be  struck 
down  in  the  herth  ! 

The  Captain,  who  looked  anything  but  daring,  feebly 
muttered  “Stand  by 

‘ ‘ Oh  I was  a weak  and  trusting  fool  when  I took  yoii 
under  my  roof,  Cap’en  Cuttle,  I was ! cried  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger.  “ To  think  of  the  iDenefits  I’ve  showered  oaj 
that  man,  and  the  v/ay  in  which  I brought  my  children 
up  to  love  and  honour  him  as  if  he  was  a father  to  ’em, 
when  there  an’t  a ’ousekeeper,  no  nor  a lodger  in  our 
street,  don’t  know  that  I lost  money  by  that  man,  and 
by  his  guzzlings  and  hiS  muzzlings  — Mrs.  MacStinger 
used  the  last  word  for  the  joint  sake  of  alliteration  and 
aggravation,  rather  than  for  the  expression  of  any  idea 
— “and  when  they  cried  out  one  and  all,  shame  upon 
him  for  putting  upon  an  industrious  v/oman,  up  early 
and  late  for  the  good  of  her  young  family,  and  keeping 
her  poor  place  so  clean  that  a individual  might  have  ate 
his  dinner,  yes,  and  his  tea  too,  if  he  was  so  disposed, 
off  any  one  of  the  floors  or  stairs,  in  spite  of  all  his 
guzzlings  and  his  muzzlings,  such  was  the  care  and  pains 
bestowed  upon  him  I ” 

Mrs.  MacStinger  stopped  to  fetch  her  b'^eath  ; and  her 
face  flushed  with  triumph  in  this  second  happy  introduc- 
tion of  Captain  Cuttle’s  muzzlings. 

“And  he  runs  awa-a-a-ay  !”  cried  Mrs.  MacStinger, 
with  a lengthening  out  of  the  last  syllable  that  made  the 
unfortunate  captain  regard  himself  as  the  meanest  cf 
men  ; “ and  keeps  av/ay  a twelvemonth  ! From  a wo- 
man ! Sich  is  his  conscience  ! He  hasn’t  the  courage  to 
meet  her  hi-i-i-igh,”  long  syllable  again  ; “ but  steals 
away  like  a felion.  Why,  if  that  baby  of  mine,”  said 
Mrs.  MacStinger,  with  sudden  rapidity,  “ was  to  offer 
to  go  and  steal  away.  I’d  do  my  duty  as  a mother  by  him, 
till  he  was  covered  with  wales  ! ” 

The  young  Alexander,  interpreting  this  into  a positive 
promise,  to  be  shortly  redeemed,  tumbled  over  with  fear 
aiid  grief,  and  lay  upon  the  floor,  exhibiting  tlie  soles  of 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


287 


his  shoes  and  making  snch  a deafening  outcry,  tha,t  Mrs. 
MacStinger  found  it  necessary  to  take  him  up  in  her 
arms,  where  she  quieted  him,  ever  and  anon,  as  he  broke 
out  again,  by  a shake  that  seemed  enough  to  loosen  his 
teeth. 

A pretty  sort  of  a man  is  Cap’en  Cuttle,’’  said  Mrs. 
BlacStinger,  with  a sharp  stress  on  the  first  syllable  of 
the  captain’s  name, take  on  for — and  to  lose  sleep  for, 
and  to  faint  along  of—and  to  think  dead  forsooth — and 
to  go  up  and  down  the  blessed  town  like  a mad  woman, 
asking  questions  after  I Oh,  a pretty  sort  of  a man  I Ha 
ha  ha  ha  ! He’s  worth  all  that  trouble  and  distress  of 
mind,  and  much  more.  That's  nothing,  bless  you  f Ha 
ha  ha  ha  ! Cap’en  Cuttle,”  said  Mrs.  MacStinger,  with 
severe  re-action  in  her  voice  and  manner,  M wish  to 
know  if  you’re  a-coming  home.” 

The  frightened  captain  looked  into  his  hat,  as  if  he  saw 
nothing  for  it  but  to  put  it  on,  and  give  himself  up. 

Cap’en  Cuttle,”  repeated  Mrs.  MacStinger,  in  the 
same  determined  manner,  ‘‘  I wish  to  know  if  you’re 
a-coming  home,  sir.” 

The  captain  seemed  quite  ready  to  go,  but  faintly  sug- 
gested something  to  the  effect  of  not  making  so  much 
noise  about  it.” 

‘‘Ay,  ay,  ay,”  said  Bunsby,  in  a soothing  tone.  “ Awast, 
my  lass,  awast  ! ” 

“ And  ’who  may  you  be,  if  you  please  ! ” retorted  Mrs. 
MacStinger,  vdth  chaste  loftiness.  “ Hid  you  ever  lodge 
at  Number  Nine,  Brig-place,  sir?  My  memory  may  be 
bad,  but  not  with  me,  I think.  There  was  a Mrs.  Jollson 
lived  at  Number  Nine  before  me,  and  perhaps  you’re  mis- 
taking me  for  her.  That  is  my  only  ways  of  accounting 
for  your  familiarity,  sir.” 

“Come,  come,  my  lass,  awast,  awast!”  said  Buns- 
by. 

Captain  Cuttle  could  hardly  believe  it,  even  of  this  great 
man,  though  he  saw  it  done  with  his  waking  eyes  : but 
Bunsby,  advancing  boldly,  put  his  shaggy  blue  arm  round 
Mrs.  MacStinger,  and  so  softened  her  by  his  magic  way 
of  doing  it,  and  by  these  few  words — he  said  no  more— 
that  she  melted  into  tears  after  looking  upon  him  for  a 
few  moments,  and  observed  that  a child  might  conquer 
her  now,  she  was  so  low  in  her  courage. 

Speechless  and  utterly  amazed,  the  captain  saw  him 
gradually  persuade  this  inexorable  woman  into  the  shop, 
return  for  rum  and  water  and  a candle,  take  them  to  her, 
and  pacify  her  without  appearing  to  utter  one  word. 
Presently  he  looked  in  with  his  pilot-coat  on,  and  said, 
•‘Cuttle,  I’m  agoing  to  act  as  convoy  home  ; ” and  Cap- 
t-ain  Cuttle,  more  to  his  confusion  than  if  he  had  been  put 
in  irons  himself,  for  safe  transport  to  Brig-place,  saw  the 


288 


WOKKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


family  pacifically  filing  off,  v/itli  Mrs.  MacStinger  at  tlieir 
kead.  He  liad  scarcely  time  to  take  down  his  canister, 
and  stealthily  convey  some  money  into  the  hands  of  Ju- 
liana MacStinger,  his  former  favourite,  atid  Chowley, 
who  had  the  claim  upon  him  that  he  was  naturally  of  a 
maritime  build,  before  the  Midshipman  was  abandoned 
by  thvem  all ; and  Bunsby,  whispering  that  lie’A  carry  on 
smart,  and  hail  Ned  Cuttle  again  before  he  went  aboard, 
shut  the  door  upon  himself,  as  the  l^st  member  of  the 
party. 

Some  uneasy  ideas  that  he  must  be  walking  in  his  sleep, 
or  that  he  had  been  troubled  with  phantoms,  and  not  a 
family  of  flesh  and  blood,  beset  the  captain  at  first,  v/heii 
he  went  back  to  the  little  parlour,  and  found  himself 
alone.  Illimitable  faith  in,  and  immeasurable  admiration 
of,  the  commander  of  the  Cautious  Clara,  succeeded,  and 
threw  the  captain  into  a wondering  trance. 

Still,  as  time  wore  on,  and  Bunsby  failed  to  reappear, 
the  captain  began  to  entertain  uncomfortable  doubts  of 
another  kind.  Whether  Bunsby  had  been  artfully  de- 
coyed to  Brig-place,  and  was  there  detained  in  safe  cus- 
tody as  hostage  for  his  friend  ; in  which  case  it  would 
become  the  captain,  as  a man  of  honour,  to  release  him, 
by  the  sacrifice  of  his  own  liberty.  Whether  he  had 
been  attacked  and  defeated  by  Mrs . MacStinger,  and  was 
ashamed  to  show  himself  after  his  discomfiture.  Whether 
Mrs.  MacStinger,  thinking  better  of  it,  in  the  uncertainty 
of  her  temper,  had  turned  back  to  board  the  Midshipman 
again,  and  Bunsby,  pretending  to  conduct  her  by  a short 
cut,  was  endeavouring  to  lose  the  family  amid  the  wild 
and  savage  places  of  the  city.  Above  all,  what  it  would 
behoove  him,  Captain  Cuttle,  to  do,  in  case  of  his  hear- 
ing no  more,  either  of  the  MacStingers  or  of  Bunsby, 
which,  in  these  wonderful  and  unforeseen  conjunctions 
®f  events,  might  possibly  happen. 

He  debased  all  this  until  he  was  tired  ; and  still  no 
Bunsby.  He  made  up^his  bed  under  the  counter,  all 
ready  for  turning  in  ; still  no  Bunsby.  At  length,  when 
the  captain  had  given  him  up,  for  that  night,  at  least,  and 
had  begun  to  undress,  the  sound  of  approaching  wheels 
was  heard,  and,  stopping  at  the  door,  v/as  succeeded  by 
Bunsby’s  hail. 

The  captain  trembled  to  think  that  Mrs.  MacStinger 
was  not  to  be  got  rid  of,  and  had  been  brought  back  in  a 
coach. 

But  no.  Bunsby  was  accompanied  by  nothing  but  a 
large  box,  which  he  hauled  into  the  shop  with  his  own 
hands,  and,  as  soon  as  he  had  hanled  in,  sat  upon.  Cap- 
tain Cattle  knew  it  for  the  chest  he  had  left  at  Mrs. 
MacStinger’s  house,  and  looking,  candle  in  hand,  at 
Bunsby  more  attentively,  believed  that  he  was  three 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


ab9 

sheets  in  the  wind,  or,  in  plain  words,  drunk.  If  was 
diiScult,  however,  to  be  sure  of  this  ; the  commander 
having  no  trace  of  expression  in  his  face  when  sober. 
Cuttle,’'  said  the  commander,  getting  off  the  chest, 
and  opening  the  lid,  are  these  here  your  traps?” 

Captain  Cuttle  looked  in  and  identified  his  property. 

‘‘Done  pretty  taut  and  trim,  hey  shipmet?”  said 
Bunsby. 

The  grateful  and  bewildered  captain  grasped  him  by 
the  hand,  and  was  launching  into  a reply  expressive  of 
his  astonished  feelings,  when  Bunsby  disengaged  him- 
self by  a jerk  of  his  wrist,  and  seemed  to  make  an  ef- 
fort to  wink  with  his  revolving  eye,  the  only  effect  of 
which  attempt,  in  his  condition,  was  nearly  to  over- 
balance him.  He  then  abruptly  opened  the  door,  and 
shot  away  to  rejoin  the  Cautious  Clara  with  all  speed — 
supposed*  to  be  his  invariable  custom,  whenever  he  con- 
sidered he  had  made  a point. 

As  it  was  not  his  humour  to  be  often  sought,  Captain 
Cuttle  decided  not  to  go  or  send  to  him  next  day,  or  un- 
til he  should  make  his  gracious  pleasure  known  in  such 
wise,  or  failing  that,  until  some  little  time  should  have 
elapsed.  The  captain,  therefore,  renewed  his  solitary 
life  next  morning,  and  thought  profoundly,  many  morn- 
ings, noons,  and  nights,  of  old  Sol  Gills  and  Bunsby's 
sentiments  concerning  him,  and  the  hopes  there  were  of 
his  return.  Much  of  such  thinking  strengthened  Cap- 
tain Cuttle’s  hopes  ; and  he  humoured  them  and  himself 
by  watching  for  the  Instrument-maker  at  the  door  as  he 
ventured  to  do  now,  in  his  strange  liberty — and  setting 
his  chair  in  its  place,  and  arranging  the  little  parlour  as 
it  used  to  be,  in  case  he  should  come  home  unexpectedly. 
He  likewise,  in  his  thoughtfulness,  took  down  a certain 
little  miniature  of  Walter  as  a schoolboy,  from  its  ac- 
customed nail,  lest  it  should  shock  the  old  man  on  his 
return.  The  captain  had  his  presentiments,  too  some- 
times, that  he  would  come  on  such  a day  ; and  one  par- 
ticular Sunday,  even  ordered  a double  allowance  of  din- 
ner, he  was  so  sanguine.  But  come,  old  Solomon  did 
not.  And  still  the  neighbours  noticed  how  the  seafaring 
man  in  the  glazed  hat,  stood  at  the  shop  door  of  an 
evening,  looking  up  and  down  the  street. 


VoL.  :12 


— ISI 


290 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

Domestic  Relations. 

It  was  not  in  tlie  nature  of  things  that  a man  of  Mr. 
Domhey’s  mood,  opposed  to  such  a spirit  as  he  had 
raised  against  himself,  should  he  softened  in  the  imperi- 
ous asperity  of  his  temper  ; or  that  the  cold  hard  ar- 
mour of  pride  in  which  he  lived  encased,  should  he  made 
more  flexible  hy  constant  collision  with  haughty  scorn 
and  defiance.  It  is  the  curse  of  such  a nature — it  is  a 
main  part  of  the  heavy  retrihution  on  itself  it  hears 
within  itself — that  while  deference  and  concession  swell 
its  evil  qualities,  and  are  the  food  it  grows  upon,  resist- 
ance, and  a questioning  of  its  exacting  claims,  foster  it 
too,  no  less.  The  evil  that  is  in  it  finds  equally  its  means 
of  growth  and  propagation,  in  opposites.  It  draws  sup» 
port  and  life  from  sweets  and  hitters  ; howed  down  be- 
fore, or  unacknowledged,  it  still  enslaves  the  breast  in 
which  it  has  its  throne  ; and,-  worshipped  or  rejected,  is 
as  hard  a master  as  the  Devil  in  dark  fables. 

Towards  his  first  wife,  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  cold  and 
lofty  arrogance,  had  borne  himself  like  the  removed 
being  he  almost  conceived  himself  to  be.  He  had  been 
‘‘Mr.  Dombey”  with  her  when  she  first  saw  him,  and  he 
was  “Mr.  Dombey”  when  she  died.  He  had  asserted 
his  greatness  during  their  whole  married  life,  and  she 
had  meekly  recognised  it.  He  had  kept  his  distant  seat 
of  state  on  the  top  of  his  throne,  and  she  her  humble 
station  on  its  lower  step ; and  much  good  it  had  done 
him,  so  to  live  in  solitary  bondage  to  his  one  idea.  He 
had  imagined  that  the  proud  character  of  his  second 
wife  would  have  been  added  to  his  own — would  have 
merged  into  it,  and  exalted  his  greatness.  He  had  pic- 
tured himself  haughtier  than  ever,  with  Edith’s  haugh- 
tiness subservient  to  his.  He  had  never  entertained  the 
possibility  of  its  arrapng  itself  against  him.  And  now, 
when  he  found  it  rising  in  his  path  at  every  step  and 
turn  of  his  daily  life,  fixing  its  cold,  defiant,  and  con- 
temptuous face  upon  him,  this  pride  of  his,  instead  of 
withering,  or  hanging  down  its  head  beneath  the  shock, 
put  forth  new  shoots,  became  more  concentrated  and 
intense,  more  gloomy,  sullen,  irksome,  and  unyielding, 
than  it  had  ever  been  before. 

Who  wears  such  armour,  too,  bears  with  him  ever  an- 
other heavy  retribution.  It  is  of  proof  against  concilia- 
tion, love,  and  confidence  ; against  all  gentle  sympathy 
from  without,  all  trust,  all  tenderness,  all  soft  emotion  ; 
but  to  deep  stabs  in  the  self-love,  it  is  as  vulnerable  as 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


291 


the  bare  breast  to  steel ; and  such  tormenting  festers 
rankle  there,  as  follow  on  no  other  wounds,  no,  though 
dealt  with  the  mailed  hand  of  pride  itself,  on  weaker 
pride,  disarmed  and  thrown  down. 

Such  wounds  were  his.  He  felt  them  sharply,  in  the 
solitude  of  his  old  rooms  ; whither  he  now  began  often 
to  retire  again,  and  pass  long  solitary  hours.  It  seemed 
his  fate  to  be  ever  proud  and  powerful  ; ever  humbled 
and  powerless  where  he  would  be  most  strong.  Who 
seemed  fated  to  work  out  that  doom  ? 

Who  ? Who  was  it  who  could  win  his  wife  as  she 
had  won  his  boy  ! Who  was  it  who  had  shown  him  that 
new  victory,  as  he  sat  in  the  dark  corner  ! Who  ^vas  it 
whose  least  word  did  what  his  utmost  means  could  not ! 
Who  was  it  who,  unaided  by  his  love,  regard,  or  notice, 
thrived  and  grew  beautiful  when  those  so  aided  died  ! 
Who  could  it  be,  but  the  same  child  at  whom  he  had 
often  glanced  uneasily  in  her  motherless  infancy,  with  a 
kind  of  dread,  lest  he  might  come  to  hate  her  ; and  of 
whom  his  foreboding  was  fulfilled,  for  he  did  hate  her 
in  his  heart. 

Yes,  and  he  would  have  it  hatred,  and  he  made  it  ha- 
ired, though  some  sparkles  of  the  light  in  which  she  had 
appeared  before  him  on  the  memorable  night  of  his  re- 
turn home  with  his  bride,  occasionally  hung  about  her 
still.  He  knew  now  that  she  was  beautiful ; he  did  not 
dispute  that  she  was  graceful  and  winning,  and  that  in 
the  bright  dawn  of  her  womanhood  she  had  come  upon 
him,  a surprise.  But  he  turned  even  this  against  her. 
In  his  sullen  and  unwholesome  brooding,  the  unhappy 
man,  with  a dull  perception  of  his  alienation  from  all 
hearts,  and  a vague  yearning  for  what  he  had  all  his  life 
repelled,  made  a distorted  picture  of  his  rights  and 
wrongs,  and  justified  himself  with  it  against  her.  The 
wortMer  she  promised  to  be  of  him,  the  greater  claim  he 
was  disposed  to  ante-date  upon  her  duty  and  submission. 
When  had  she  ever  shown  him  duty  and  submission  ? 
Did  she  grace  his  life — or  Edith’s  ? Had  her  attractions 
been  manife  ded  first  to  him — or  Edith  ? Why,  he  and 
she  had  never  been,  from  her  birth,  like  father  and 
child  ! They  had  always  been  estranged.  She  had 
crossed  him  every  way  and  everywhere.  She  was 
leagued  against  him  now.  Her  very  beauty  softened 
natures  that  were  obdurate  to  him,  and  insulted  him 
with  an  unnatural  triumph. 

•It  may  have  been  that  in  all  this  there  were  mutterings 
of  an  awakened  feeling  in  his  breast,  however  selfishly 
aroused  by  his  position  of  disadvantage,  in  comparison 
with  what  she  might  have  made  his  life.  But  he  si- 
lenced the  distant  thunder  with  the  rolling  of  his  sea  of 
pride.  He  would  bear  nothing  but  his  pride.  And  in 


292 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


fils  pride,  a heap  of  inconsistency,  and  misery,  and  self- 
inflicted  tormont,  lie  hated  her. 

To  the  moody,  stubborn,  sullen  demon,  that  possessed 
him,  his  wife  opposed  her  different  pride  in  its  full  force. 
They  never  could  have  led  a happy  life  together  ; but 
nothing  could  have  made  it  more  unhappy,  than  the 
wilful  and  determined  warfare  of  such  elements.  His 
pride  was  set  upon  maintaining  his  magnificent  suprem- 
acy, and  forcing  recognition  of  it  from  her.  She  would 
have  been  racked  to  death,  and  turned  but  her  haughty 
glance  of  calm  inflexible  disdain  upon  him,  to  the  last. 
Such  recognition  from  Edith  ! He  little  knew  through 
what  a storm  and  struggle  she  had  been  driven  onward 
to  the  crowning  honour  of  his  hand.  He  little  knew 
how  much  she  thought  she  had  conceded,  when  she  suf- 
fered him  tx>  call  her  wife. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  resolved  to  shovr  her  that  he  was  su. 
preme.  There  must  be  no  will  but  Ms.  Proud  he  de- 
sired that  she  should  be,  but  she  must  be  proud  for,  not 
against  him.  As  he  sat  alone,  hardening,  he  would  often 
hear  her  go  out  and  come  home,  treading  the  round  of 
London  life  with  no  more  heed  of  his  liking  or  disliking, 
pleasure  or  displeasure,  than  if  he  had  been  her  groom. 
Her  cold  supreme  indifference — his  own  unquestioned 
attribute  usurped— stung  him  more  than  any  other  kind 
of  treatment  could  have  done  ; and  he  determined  to 
bend  her  to  his  magnificent  and  stately  will. 

He  had  been  long  communing  with  these  thoughts, 
when  one  night  be  sought  her  in  her  own  apartment, 
after  he  had  heard  her  return  home  late.  She  was  alone, 
in  her  brilliant  dress,  and  had  but  that  moment  com« 
from  her  mother’s  room.  Her  face  was  melancholy  and 
pensive,  when  he  came  upon  her  ; but  it  marked  him  at 
the  door  ; for,  glancing  at  the  mirror  before  it,  he  saw 
immediately,  as  in  a picture-frame,  the  knitted  brow, 
and  darkened  beauty  that  he  knew  so  well. 

‘‘Mrs.  Dombey,”  he  said,  entering,  “I  must  beg  leave 
to  havd  a few  words  with  you.” 

“ To-morrow,”  she  replied. 

“ There  is  no  time  like  the  present,  madam,”  he  re- 
turned. “You  mistake  your  position.  I am  used  to 
choose  my  own  times  ; not  to  have  them  chosen  for  me. 
I think  you  scarcely  understand  who  and  what  I am, 
Mrs.  Dombey.  ” 

“ I think,”  she  answered,  “that  I understand  you  very 
well.” 

She  looked  upon  him  as  she  said  so,  and  folding  her 
white  arms,  sparkling  with  gold  and  gems,  upon  her 
swelling  breast,  turned  away  her  eyes. 

If  she  had  been  less  handsome,  and  less  stately  in  her 
cold  composure,  she  might  not  have  had  the  power  of 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


293 


impressing  him  with  the  sense  of  disadvantage  that  pene- 
trated tlii’ough  his  utmost  pride.  But  she  had  the  power, 
and  he  felt  it  keenly.  He  glanced  round  the  room  : saw 
how  the  splendid  means  of  personal  adornment,  and  the 
luxuries  of  dress,  were  scattered  here  and  there,  and 
disregarded  ; not  in  mere  caprice  and  carelessness  (or 
so  he  thought),  hut  in  a stedfast,  haughty  disregard  of 
costly  things  : and  felt  it  more  and  more.  Chaplets  of 
flowers,  plumes  of  feathers,  jewels,  laces,  silks  and 
satins  ; look  where  he  would,  he  saw  riches,  despised, 
poured  out,  and  made  of  no  account.  The  very  dia- 
monds— a marriage  gift- — that  rose  and  fell  impatiently 
upon  her  bosom,  seemed  to  pant  to  break  the  chain  that 
clasped  them  round  her  neck,  and  roll  down  on  the  floor 
where  she  might  tread  upon  them. 

He  felt  his  disadvantage,  and  he  showed  it.  Solemn 
and  strange  among  this  wealth  of  colour  and  voluptuous 
glitter,  strange  and  constrained  towards  its  haughty 
mistress,  whose  repellent  beauty  it  repeated,  and  pre- 
sented all  around  him,  as  in  so  many  fragments  of  a 
mirror,  he  was  conscious  of  embarrassment  and  awk- 
wardness. Nothing  that  ministered  to  her  disdainful 
self-possession  could  fail  to  gall  him.  Galled  and  irri- 
tated with  himself,  he  sat  down,  and  went  on  in  no  im* 
proved  humour  : 

‘‘Mrs.  Hombey,  it  is  very  necessary  that  there  should 
be  some  understanding  arrived  at  between  us.  Your 
conduct  does  not  please  me,  madam.’' 

She  merely  glanced  at  him  again,  and  again  averted 
her  eyes  ; but  she  might  have  spoken  for  an  hour,  and 
expressed  less. 

“ I repeat,  Mrs.  Dombey,  does  not  please  me.  I have 
already  taken  occasion  to  request  that  it  may  be  correct^ 
ed.  I now  insist  upon  it.’' 

“You  chose  a fitting  occasion  for  your  first  remom 
stance,  sir,  and  you  adopt  a fitting  manner  and  a fitting 
word  for  your  second.  Yoii  insist ! To  me  ! " 

“Madam,"  said  Mr.  Hombey,  with  his  most  oifensive 
air  of  state,  “ I have  made  you  my  wife.  You  bear  my 
name.  You  are  associated  with  my  position  and  my  re- 
putation. I will  not  say  that  the  world  in  general  may 
be  disposed  to  think  you  honoured  by  that  association  * 
but  I will  say  that  I am  accustomed  to  insist,'  to  my 
connexions  and  dependants." 

“Which  may  you  be  pleased  to  consider  me?"  she 
asked. 

“Possibly  I may  think  that  my  wife  should  partake — 
or  does  partake,  and  cannot  help  herself — of  both  char- 
acters, Mrs.  Dombey." 

She  bent  her  eyes  upon  him  steadily,  and  set  her  trem- 
bling lips.  He  saw  her  bosom  throb,  and  saw  her  face 


294 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


^tusli  and  turn  white.  All  this  he  could  know,  and  did : 
but  he  could  not  know  that  one  word  was  whispering  in 
the  deep  recesses  of  her  heart,  to  keep  her  quiet ; and 
that  the  word  was  Florence* 

Blind  idiot,  rushing  to  a precipice  I He  thought  she 
stood  in  awe  of  Mm  I 

‘"You  are  too  expensive,  madam, said  Mr.  Dombey. 
“You  are  extravagant.  You  waste  a great  deal  of 
money — or  what  would  be  a great  deal  in  the  pockets  of 
most  gentlemen — in  cultivating  a kind  of  society  that  is 
useless  to  me,  and,  indeed,  that  upon  the  whole  is  dis- 
agreeable to  me.  I have  to  insist  upon  a total  change  in 
all  these  respects.  I know  that  in  the  novelty  of  pos- 
sessing a tithe  of  such  means  as  fortune  has  placed  at 
your  disposal,  ladies  are  apt  to  run  into  a sudden  ex- 
treme. There  has  been  more  than  enough  of  that  ex- 
treme. I beg  that  Mrs.  Granger’s  very  different  experi- 
ences may  now  come  to  the  instruction  of  Mrs.  Dombey.” 

Still  the  fixed  look,  the  trembling  lips,  the  throbbing 
breast,  the  face  now  crimson  and  now  white ; and  still 
the  deep  whisper  Florence,  Florence,  speaking  to  her  in 
the  beating  of  her  heart. 

His  insolence*  of  self-importance  dilated  as  he  saw  this 
alteration  in  her.  Swollen  no  less  by  her  past  scorn  of 
him,  and  his  so  recent  feeling  of  disadvantage,  that  by 
her  present  submission  (as  he  took  it  to  be),  it  became 
too  mighty  for  his  breast,  and  burst  all  bounds.  ^Yhy, 
who  could  long  resist  his  lofty  will  and  pleasui*e  ! He 
had  resolved  to  conquer  her,  and  look  here  ! 

“ You  will  further  please,  madam,”  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
in  a tone  of  sovereign  command,  “to  understand  distinct- 
ly, that  I am  to  be  deferred  to  and  obeyed.  That  I must 
have  a positive  show  and  confession  of  deference  before 
the  world,  madam.  I am  used  to  this.  1 require  it  as 
my  right.  In  short  I vrill  have  it.  I consider  it  no  un- 
reasonable return  for  the  worldly  advancement  that  has 
befallen  you  ; and  I believe  nobody  will  be  surprised, 
either  at  its  being  required  from  you,  or  at  your  making 
it. — To  me — to  me  ! ” he  added,  with  emphasis. 

No  word  from  her.  No  change  in  her.  Her  eyes 
Upon  him. 

“ I have  learnt  from  your  mother,  Mrs.  Dombey,” 
said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  magisterial  importance,  “ what 
no  doubt  you  know,  namely,  that  Brighton  is  recommend- 
ed for  her  health.  Mr.  Carker  has  feen  so  good — ” 

She  changed  suddenly.  Her  face  and  bosom  glowed 
as  if  the  red  light  of  an  angry  sunset  had  been  flung 
upon  them.  Not  unobservant  of  the  change,  and  putting 
his  own  interpretation  upon  it,  Mr.  Dombey  resumed  : 

“ Mr.  Carker  has  been  so  good  as  to  go  down  and 
lecure  a house  there,  for  a time.  On  the  return  of  the 


DOMBBY  AND  SON. 


295 


^establishment  to  London,  I shall  take  such  steps  for  its 
better  management  as  I consider  necessary.  One  of  these, 
will  be  the  engagement  at  Brighton  (if  it  is  to  be  effected), 
bf  a very  respectable  reduced  person  there,  a Mrs.  Pip- 
bbin,  formerly  employed  in  a situation  of  trust  in  my 
family,  to  act  as  housekeeper.  An  establishment  like 
this,  presided  over  but  nominally,  Mrs.  Dombey,  requires 
a competent  head/’ 

She  had  changed  her  attitude  before  he  arrived  at 
these  words,  and  now  sat — still  looking  at  him  fixedly — 
turning  a bracelet  around  and  round  upon  her  arm  ; not 
winding  it  about  with  a light  womanly  touch,  but  press- 
ing and  dragging  it  over  the  smooth  skin,  until  the  white 
limb  showed  a bar  of  red. 

“ I observed,”  said  Mr.  Dombey — and  this  concludes 
what  I deem  it  necessary  to  say  to  you  at  present,  Mrs. 
Dombey — I observed  a moment  ago,  madam,  that  my 
allusion  to  Mr.  Carker  was  received  in  a peculiar  man- 
ner. On,  the  occasion  of  my  happening  to  point  out  to 
you,  before  that  confidential  agent,  the  objection  I had 
to  your  mode  of  receiving  my  visitors,  you  were  pleased 
to  object  to  his  presence.  You  will  have  to  get  the  bet- 
ter of  that  objection,,  madam,  and  to  accustom  yourseli 
to  it  very  probably  on  many  similar  occasions  ; unless 
you  adopt  the  remedy  which  is  in  your  own  hands,  of 
giving  me  no  cause  of  complaint.  Mr.  Carker,”  said 
Mr,  Dombey,  who  after  the  emotion  he  had  just  seen, 
set  great  store  by  this  means  of  reducing  his  proud  v ife 
and  who  was  perhaps  sufficiently  willing  to  exhibit  h/> 
power  to  that  gentleman  in  a new  and  triumphal:. . 
aspect,  ‘"Mr.  Carker  being  in  my  confidence,  Mrs.  ®on 
bey,  may  very  well  be  in  yours  to  such  an  extent.  /. 
hope,  Mrs.  Dombey,”  he  continued,  after  a few  moments 
during  which,  in  his  increasing  haughtiness,  he  had  im- 
proved on  his  idea,  “ I may  not  find  it  necessary  ever  to 
intrust  Mr.  Carker  with  any  message  of  objection  or  re- 
monstrance to  you  ; but  as  it  would  be  derogatory  to  my 
position  and  reputation  to  be  frequently  holding  trivial 
disputes  with  a lady  upon  whom  I have  conferred  the 
highest  distinction  that  it  is  in  my  power  to  bestow,  I 
shall  not  scruple  to  avail  myself  of  his  services  if  I see 
occasion.” 

“ And  now,”  he  thought,  rising  in  his  moral  magnifi- 
cence, and  rising  a stiffer  and  more  impenetrable  man 
than  ever,  “ she  knows  me  and  my  resolution.” 

The  hand  that  had  so  pressed  the  bracelet  was  laid 
heavily  upon  her  breast,  but  she  looked  at  him  still,  with 
an  unaltered  face,  and  said  in  a low  voice  : 

“ Wait  ! For  God’s  sake  ! I must  speak  to  you.” 

Why  did  she  not,  and  what  was  the  inward  struggle 
that  rendered  her  incapable  of  doing  so,  for  minutes, 


296 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


while,  in  the  strong  constraint  she  put  upon  her  face, 
it  was  as  fixed  as  any  statue^s — looking  upon  him  with 
neither  yielding  nor  unyielding,  liking  nor  hatred,  pride 
nor  humility  : nothing  but  a searching  gaze. 

‘‘  Did  I ever  tempt  you  to  seek  my  hand?  Did  I ever 
use  any  art  to  win  you  ? Was  I ever  more  conciliating 
to  you  when  you  pursued  me,  than  I have  been  since  our 
marriage  ? Was  I ever  other  to  you  than  I am  ? '' 

It  is  wholly  unnecessary,  madam,’'  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  '’to  enter  upon  such  discussions.” 

“ Did  you  think  I loved  you?  Did  you  know  I did 
not  ? Did  you  ever  care,  man  ! for  my  heart,  or  propose 
to  yourself  to  win  the  worthless  thing  ? Was  there  any 
poor  pretence  of  any  in  our  bargain  ? Upon  your  side, 
or  on  mine  ? ” 

These  questions,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  are  all  wide 
of  the  purpose,  madam.” 

She  moved  between  him  and  the  door  to  prevent  his 
going  away,  and  drawing  her  majestic  figure  to  its 
height,  looked  steadily  upon  him  still. 

‘‘  You  answer  each  of  them.  You  answer  me  before 
I speak,  I see.  How  can  you  help  it  ; you  who  know  the 
miserable  truth  as  well  as  I?  Now,  tell  me.  If  I loved 
you  to  devotion,  could  I do  more  than  render  up  my 
whole  will  and  being  to  you,  as  you  have  just  demanded  ? 
If  my  heart  were  pure  and  all  untried,  and  you  its  idol, 
could  you  ask  more  ; could  you  have  more  ! ” 

Possibly  not,  madam,”  he  returned  coolly. 

You  know  how  different  I am.  You  see  me  looking 
on  you  now,  and  you  can  read  the  warmth  of  passion  for 
you  that  is  breathing  in  my  face.”  Not  a curl  of  the 
proud  lip,  not  a flash  of  the  dark  eye,  nothing  but  the 
same  intent  and  searching  look,  accompanied  these 
words.  ‘‘You  know  my  general  history.  You  have 
spoken  of  my  mother.  Do  you  think  you  can  degrade, 
or  bend  or  break,  m^to  submission  and  obedience  ? ” 

Mr.  Dombey  smiled,  as  he  might  have  smiled  at  an  in- 
quiry whether  he  thought  he  could  raise  ten  thousand 
pounds. 

“If  there  is  anything  unusual  here,”  she  said,  with  s 
slight  motion  of  her  hand  before  her  brow,  which  did 
not  for  a moment  flinch  from  its  immovable  and  other, 
wise  expressionless  gaze,  “ as  I know  there  are  unusual 
feelings  here,”  raising  the  hand  she  pressed  upon  her 
bosom,  and  heavily  returning  it,  “ consider  that  there  is 
no  common  meaning  in  the  appeal  I am  going  to  make 
you.  Yes,  for  I am  going  ; ” she  said  it  as  in  prompt  re- 
ply to  something  in  his  face  ; “ to  appeal  to  you.” 

Mr.  Dombey,  with  a slightly  condescending  bend  of 
his  chin  that  rustled  and  cracked  his  stiff  cravat,  sat 
down  on  a sofa  that  was  near  him,  to  hear  the  appeal. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


297 


If  you  can  believe  that  I am  of  such  a nature  now,”— ^ 
he  fancied  he  saw  tears  ^listenin^  in  her  eyes,  and  he 
thought,  complacently, that  he  had  forced  them  from  her, 
though  none  fell  on  her  check,  and  she  regarded  him  as 
steadily  as  ever, — as  would  make  what  I now 
say  almost  incredible  to  myself,  said  to  any  man  who 
had  become  my  husband,  but,  above  all,  said  to  you, 
you  may,  perhaps,  attach  the  greater  weigh  to  it.  In 
the  dark  end  to  which  we  are  tending,  and  may  come, 
we  shall  not  involve  ourselves  alone  (that  might  not  be 
much),  but  others.” 

Others  ! He  knew  at  whom  that  word  pointed  and 
frowned  heavily. 

I speak  to  you  for  the  sake  of  others.  Also  your 
own  sake  ; and  for  mine.  Since  our  marriage,  you  have 
been  arrogant  to  me  ; and  I have  repaid  you  in  kind. 
You  have  shown  to  me  and  every  one  around  us,  every 
day  and  hour,  that  you  think  I am  graced  and  distin- 
guished by  your  alliance.  I do  not  think  so,  and  have 
shown  that  too.  It  seems  you  do  not  understand,  or  (so 
far  as  your  power  can  go)  intend  that  each  of  us  shall 
take  a separate  course  / and  you  expect  from  me  instead, 
a homage  you  will  never  have.” 

Although  her  face  was  still  the  same,  there  was  em- 
phatic confirmation  of  this  Never,”  in  the  very  breath 
she  drew. 

‘‘  I feel  no  tenderness  towards  you  ; that  you  know. 
You  would  care  nothing  for  it,  if  I did  or  could.  I know 
as  well  that  you  feel  none  towards  me.  But  we  are 
linked  together  ; and  in  the  knot  that  ties  us,  as  I have 
said,  others  are  bound  up.  We  must  both  die  ; we  are 
both  connected  with  the  dead  already,  each  by  a little 
child.  Let  us  forbear.” 

Mr.  Bombey  took  a long  respiration,  as  if  he  would 
have  said.  Oh  ; was  this  all  ! 

There  is  no  wealth,”  she  went  on,  turning  paler  as 
she  watched  him,  v/hile  her  eyes  grew  yet  more  lustrous 
in  their  earnestness,  ‘ ^ that  could  buy  these  words  of 
me,  and  the  meaning  that  belongs  to  them.  Once  cast 
away  as  idle  breath,  no  wealth  nor  power  can  bring  them 
back.  I mean  them  ; I have  weighed  them  ; and  I will 
be  true  to  what  I undertake.  If  you  will  promise  to  for- 
bear on  your  part,  I will  promise  to  forbear  on  mine. 
We  are  a most  unhappy  pair,  in  whom,  from  different 
causes,  every  sentiment  that  blesses  marriage  or  justifies 
it,  is  rooted  out ; but  in  the  course  of  time,  some  friend- 
ship, or  some  fitness  for  each  other,  may  arise  between 
us.  I will  try  to  hope  so,  if  you  will  make  the  endea- 
vour too  ; and  I will  look  forward  to  a better  and  a hap- 
pier use  of  age  than  I have  made  of  youth  or  prime.” 

Throughout  she  had  spoken  in  a low  plain  voice,  that 


298 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


neither  rose  nor  fell ; ceasing,  she  dropped  the  hand  with 
which  she  had  enforced  herself  to  be  so  passionless  an(J 
distinct,  but  not  the  eyes  with  which  she  had  so  steadily 
observed  him. 

Madam,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  his  utmost  dignity, 
“ I cannot  entertain  any  proposal  of  this  extraordinary 
nature.” 

She  looked  at  him  yet,  without  the  least  change. 

''I  cannot,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  rising  as  he  spoke, 

consent  to  temporise  or  treat  with  you,  Mrs.  Dombey, 
upon  a subject  as  to  which  you  are  in  possession  of  my 
opinions  and  expectations.  I have  stated  my  ultimatum^ 
madam,  and  have  only  to  request  your  very  serious  at- 
tention to  it,” 

To  see  the  face  change  to  its  old  expression,  deepened 
in  intensity  ! To  see  the  eyes  droop  as  from  some  mean 
and  odious  object ! To  see  the  lighting  of  the  haughty 
brow  ! To  see  scorn,  anger,  indignation,  and  abhorrence 
starting  into  light,  and  the  pale  blank  earnestness  vanish 
like  a mist ! He  could  not  choose  but  look,  although  he 
looked  to  his  dismay. 

‘‘  Go,  sir  ! ” she  said,  pointing  with  an  imperious  hand 
towards  the  door.  ‘‘  Our  first  and  last  confidence  is  at 
an  end.  Nothing  can  make  us  stranger  to  each  other 
than  we  are  henceforth.” 

‘ ‘ I shall  take  my  rightful  course,  madam,  ” said  Mr. 
Dombey,  undeterred,  you  may  be  sure,  by  any  general 
declamation.” 

She  turned  her  back  upon  him,  and,  without  reply, 
sat  down  before  her  glass. 

place  my  reliance  on  your  improved  sense  of  duty, 
^md  more  correct  feeling,  and  better  reflexion,  madam,” 
said  Mr.  Dombey. 

She  answered  not  one  word.  He  saw  no  more  expression 
of  any  heed  of  him,  in  the  mirror,  than  if  he  had  been 
an  unseen  spider  on  the  wall,  or  beetle  on  the  floor,  or 
rather  than  if  he  had  been  the  one  or  other,  seen  and 
crushed  when  she  last  turned  from  him,  and  forgotten 
among  the  ignominious  and  dead  vermin  of  the  ground. 

He  looked  back,  as  he  went  out  at  the  door,  upon  the 
well-lighted  and  luxurious  room,  the  beautiful  and  glit- 
tering objects  everywhere  displayed,  the  shape  of  Edith 
in  its  rich  dress  seated  before  her  glass,  and  the  face  of 
Edith  as  the  glass  presented  it  to  him  ; and  he  betook 
himself  to  his  old  chamber  of  cogitation,  carrying  away 
with  him  a vivid  picture  in  his  mind  of  all  these  things, 
and  a rambling  and  unaccountable  speculation  (such  as 
sometimes  comes  into  a man’s  head)  how  they  would  all 
look  when  he  saw  them  next. 

For  the  rest,  Mr.  Dombey  was  very  taciturn,  and  very 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


299 


dignified,  and  very  confident  of  carrying  out  his  pur 
pose  ; and  remained  so. 

He  did  not  design  accompanying  the  family  to  Brigh- 
ton ; hut  he  graciously  informed  Cleopatra  at  breakfast, 
on  the  morning  of  departure,  which  arrived  a day  or  two 
afterwards, that  he  might  be  expected  down,  soon.  There 
was  no  time  to  be  lost  in  getting  Cleopatra  to  any  place 
recommended  as  being  salutary  ; for,  indeed,  she  seemed 
ujjon  the  wane,  and  turning  of  the  earth,  earthly. 

Without  having  undergone  any  decided  second  attack 
of  her  malady,  the  old  woman  seemed  to  have  crawled 
backward  in  her  recovery  from  the  first.  She  was  more 
lean  and  shrunken,  more  uncertain  in  her  imbecility,  and 
made  stranger  confusions  in  her  mind  and  memory. 
Among  other  symptoms  of  this  last  affliction,  she  fell  into 
the  habit  of  confounding  the  names  of  her  two  sons-in- 
law,  the  living  and  the  deceased  ; and  in  general  called 
Mr.  Bombey,  either  Grangeby,’'  or  Bomber,'’  or  in- 
differently, both. 

But  she  was  youthful,  very  youthful,  still  ; and  in  her 
youthfulness  she  appeared  at  breakfast,  before  going 
away,  in  a new  bonnet,  made  express,  and  a travelling 
robe  that  was  embroidered  and  braided  like  an  old  baby's. 
It  was  not  easy  to  put  her  into  a fly-away  bonnet  now, 
or  to  keep  the  bonnet  in  its  place  on  the  back  of  her  poor 
nodding  head,  when  it  was  got  on.  In  this  instance,  it 
had  not  only  the  extraneous  effect  of  being  always  on 
one  side,  but  of  being  perpetually  tapped  on  the  crown 
by  Flowers  the  maid,  who  attended  in  the  background 
during  breakfast  to  perform  that  duty. 

^'Now  my  dearest  Grangeby,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton, 

you  must  positively  prom,"  she  cut  some  of  her  words 
short,  and  cut  out  others  altogether,  come  down  very 
soon." 

‘"I  said  just  now,  madam,"  returned  Mr.  Bombey, 
loudly,  and  laboriously,  that  I am  coming  in  a day  or 
two." 

Bless  you.  Bomber  ! " 

Here  the  major,  who  was  come  to  take  leave  of  the 
ladies,  and  who  was  staring  through  his  apoplectic  eyes 
at  Mrs.  Skewton's  face,  with  the  disinterested  composure 
of  an  immortal  being,  said  : 

Begad,  ma'am,  you  don't  ask  old  Joe  to  come  ! " 

"‘Sterious  wretch,  who's  he?"  lisped  Cleopatra.  But 
a tap  on  the  bonnet  from  Flowers  seeming  to  jog  her 
memory,  she  added,  Oh  ! You  mean  yourself,  you 
naughty  creature  ! " 

‘‘Bevilish  queer,  sir,"  whispered  the  major  to  Mr. 
Bombey.  Bad  case.  Never  did  wrap  up  enough;" 
the  major  being  buttoned  to  the  chin.  ‘ ' Why  who 
should  J.  B.  mean  by  Joe,  but  old  Joe  Bagstock — Joseph 


300 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


—Your  slave — Joe,  ma'am?  Here!  Here's  the  man  ^ 
Here  are  the  Bagstock  bellows,  ma'am  !"  cried  the  major, 
striking  himself  a sounding  blow  on  the  chest. 

‘ * My  dearest  Edith — Grangeby — it's  most  trordinry 
thing,"  said  Cleopatra,  pettishly,  '‘that  Major — " 

" Bagstock  ! J.  B.  I " cried  the  major,  seeing  that  she 
faltered  for  his  name. 

"Well,  it  don't  matter,"  said  Cleopatra,  "Edith,  my 
love,  you  know  1 never  could  remember  names — what 
was  it  ? oh,  a most  trordinry  thing  that  so  many  people 
want  come  down  see  me.  I'm  not  going  for  long.  I'm 
coming  back.  Surely  they  can  wait,  till  I come  back  1 " 

Cleopatra  looked  all  round  the  table  as  she  said  it,  and 
appeared  very  uneasy, 

" I won't  have  visitors—really  don't  want  visitors,'* 
she  said  ; " little  repose — and  all  that  sort  of  thing — is 
what  I quire.  No  odious  brutes  Cxiust  proach  me  till 
I've  shaken  off  this  numbness  ; " and  in  a grisly  resump- 
tion of  her  coquettish  ways,  she  made  a dab  at  the  major 
with  her  fan,  but  overset  Mr.  Dombey's  breakfast  cup 
instead,  which  was  in  quite  a different  direction. 

Then  she  called  for  Withers,  and  charged  him  to  see 
particularly  that  word  was  left  about  some  trivial  alter- 
ations in  her  room,  which  must  be  all  made  before  she 
came  back,  and  which  must  be  set  about  immediately, 
as  there  was  no  saying  how  soon  she  might  come  back  ; 
for  she  had  a great  many  engagements,  and  all  sorts  of 
people  to  call  upon.  Withers  received  these  directions 
with  becoming  deference,  and  gave  his  guarantee  for 
their  execution  ; but  when  he  withdrew  a pace  or  two 
'behind  her,  it  appeared  as  if  he  couldn't  help  looking 
sirangelyat  the  major  who  couldn't  help  loolang  strange- 
ly at  Mr.  Dombey,  who  couldn't  help  looking  strangely 
at  Cleopatra.,  who  couldn't  help  nodding  her  bonnet  over 
one  eye,  and  rattling  her  knife  and  fork  upon  her  plate 
in  using  them  as  if  she  w^ere  playing  castanets. 

Edith  alone  never  lifted  her  eyes  to  any  face  at  the 
table,  and  never  seemed  dismayed  by  anything  her 
mother  said  or  did.  She  listened  to  her  disjointed  talk, 
or  at  least,  turned  her  head  towards  her  when  ad- 
dressed ; replied  in  a few  low  words  when  necessary  ; 
and  sometimes  stopped  her  when  she  was  rambling,  or 
brought  her  thoughts  back  with  a monosyllable,  to  the 
point  from  which  they  had  strayed.  The  mother,  how- 
ever unsteady  in  other  things,  was  constant  in  this — that 
she  was  always  observant  of  her.  She  would  look  at  the 
beautiful  face,  in  its  marble  stillness  and  severity,  now 
with  a kind  of  fearful  admiration  ; now  in  a giggling 
foolish  effort  to  move  it  to  a smile  ; now  with  capricious 
tears  and  jealous  shakings  of  her  head,  as  imagining  her- 
self neglected  bv  it ; always  with  an  attraction  towards  it. 


DOMBBY  AND  SON. 


301 


that  never  fluctuated  like  her  other  ideas,  but  had  con- 
stant possession  of  her.  From  Edith  she  would  some- 
times look  at  Florence,  and  back  again  at  Edith  in  a 
manner  that  was  wild  enough  ; and  sometimes  she  would 
try  to  look  elsewhere,  as  if  to  escape  from  her  daughter’s 
face  ; but  back  to  it  she  seemed  forced  to  come,  although 
it  never  sought  hers  unless  sought,  or  troubled  her  with 
one  single  glance. 

The  breakfast  concluded,  Mrs.  Skewton,  affecting  to 
lean  girlishly  upon  the  major’s  arm,  but  heavily  sup- 
ported on  the  other  side  by  Flowers  the  maid,  and 
propped  up  behind  by  Withers  the  page>  was  conducted 

the  carriage,  which  was  to  take  her,  Florence,  and 
j^dith  to  Brighton. 

‘‘  And  is  Joseph  absolutely  banished  ? ” said  the  major, 
thrusting  in  his  purple  face  over  the  steps.  Damme, 
ma’am,  is  Cleopatra  so  hard-hearted  as  to  forbid  her 
faithful  Antony  Bagstock  to  approach  the  presence  ? ” 

“ Go  along  ! ” said  Cleopatra,  I can’t  bear  you.  You 
shall  see  me  when  I come  back,  if  you  are  very  good.” 

‘^Tell  Joseph,  he  may  live  in  hope,  ma’am,”  said  the 
major  ; '‘or  he’ll  die  in  despair.” 

Cleopatra  shuddered  and  leaned  back.  " Edith,  my 
dear,”  she  said.  “ Tell  him — ” 

"What?” 

" Such  dreadful  words,”  said  Cleopatra.  " He  uses 
such  dreadful  words  ! ” 

Edith  signed  to  him  to  retire,  gave  the  word  to  go  on, 
and  left  the  objectionable  major  to  Mr.  Dombey.  To 
whom  he  returned,  whistling. 

"I’ll  tell  you  what,  sir,”  said  the  major,  with  his 
hands  behind  him,  and  his  legs  very  wide  asunder,  " a 
fair  friend  of  ours  has  removed  to  Queer-street.” 

" What  do  you  mean  mj?jor  ? ” inquired  Mr.  Dombey. 

" I mean  to  say,  Dombey,”  returned  the  major,  "that 
jou’ll  soon  be  an  orphan-in-law.” 

Mr.  Dombey  appeared  to  relish  this  waggish  descrip- 
tion of  himself  so  very  little  that  the  major  wound  up 
with  the  horse’s  cough,  as  an  expression  of  gravity. 

"Damme,  sir,”  said  the  major,  "there  is  no  use  In 
disguising  a fact.  Joe  is  ^lunt,  sir.  That’s  his  nature. 
If  you  take  old  Josh  at  all,  you  take  him  as  you  And 
him  ; and  a de-vilish  rusty,  old  rasper,  of  a close-toothed, 
J.  B.  file,  you  do  find  him.  Dombey,”  said  tbe  major, 
" your  wife’s  mother  is  on  the  move,  sir.” 

" I fear,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  much  philosophyt 
" that  Mrs.  Skewton  is  shaken.” 

" Shaken,  Dombey  ! ” said  the  major.  " Smashed  I ” 

"Change,  however,”  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  "and  at- 
tention may  do  much  yet.” 

" Don’t  believe  it,  sir,  ” returned  the  major.  " Damme, 


302 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


sir,  slie  never  wrapped  up  enough.  If  a man  don’t  wrap 
up,'  ’ said  the  major,  taking  in  another  button  of  his  bufC 
waistcoat,  he  has  nothing  to  fall  back  upon.  But  some 
people  will  die.  They  v^ill  do  it.  Damme,  they  will. 
They’re  obstinate.  I tell  you  what,  Dombey,  it  may  not 
be  ornamental  ; it  may  not  be  refined  ; it  may  be  rough 
and  tough  ; but  a little  of  the  genuine  old  English  Bag- 
stock  stamina,  sir,  would  do  all  the  good  in  the  world  to 
the  human  breed.” 

After  imparting  this  precious  piece  of  information,  the 
major,  who  was  certainly  true-blue,  whatever  other  en- 
dowments he  may  have  possessed  or  wanted,  coming 
within  the  genuine  old  English”  classification,  which 
has  never  been  exactly  ascertained,  took  his  lobster-eyes 
and  his  apoplexy  to  the  dub  and  choked  there  all  day. 

Cleopatra,  at  one  time  fretful,  at  another  self-compla- 
cent, sometimes  awake,  sometimes  asleep,  at  all  times 
juvenile,  reached  Brighton  the  same  night,  fell  to  pieces 
as  usual,  and  was  put  away  in  bed  ; where  a gloomy 
fancy  might  have  pictured  a more  potent  skeleton  than 
the  maid  who  should  have  been  one,  watching  at  the 
rose-coloured  curtains,  which  were  carried  down  to  shed 
their  bloom  upon  her. 

It  was  settled  in  high  council  of  medical  authority 
that  she  should  take  a -carriage  airing  every  day,  and 
that  it  was  important  she  should  get  out  every  day  and 
walk  if  she  could.  Edith  was  ready  to  attend  her — 
always  ready  to  attend  her,  with  the  same  mechanical 
attention  and  immovable  beauty— and  they  drove  out 
alone  ; for  Edith  had  an  uneasiness  in  the  presence  of 
Florence,  now  that  her  mother  was  worse,  and  told 
Florence,  with  a kiss,  that  she  would  rather  they  two  went 
alone. 

Mrs.  Skewton,  on  one  particn,lar  day,  was  in  the  irreso= 
lute,  exacting,  jealous  temper  that  had  developed  itself 
on  her  recovery  from  her  first  attack.  After  sitting  silent 
in  the  carriage  watching  Edith  for  some  time,  she  took 
her  hand  and  kissed  it  passionately^  The  hand  was 
neither  given  nor  withdrawn,  but  simply  yielded  to  her 
raising  of  it,  and  being  released,  dropped  down  again, 
almost  as  if  it  were  insensible.  At  this  she  began  to 
whimper  and  moan,  and  say  what  a mother  she  had  been, 
and  how  she  was  forgotten  ! This  she  continued  to  do 
at  capricious  intervals,  even  when  they  had  alighted  j 
when  she  herself  was  halting  along  with  the  joint  sup- 
port of  Withers  and  a stick,  and  Edith  was  walking  by 
her  side,  and  the  carriage  slowly  following  at  a little  dis- 
tance. 

It  was  a bleak,  lowering,  windy  day,  and  they  were 
out  upon  the  Downs  with  nothing  but  a bare  sweep  of 
land  between  them  and  the  sky.  The  mother,  with  a 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


303 


querulous  satisf action  in  the  monotony  of  her  complaint, 
was  still  repeating  it  in  a low  voice  from  time  to  time, 
and  the  proud  form  of  her  daughter  moved  beside  her 
slowly,  when  there  came  advancing  over  a dark  ridg^ 
before  them,  two  other  figures,  which  in  the  distance, 
were  so  like  an  exaggerated  imitation  of  their  own,  that 
Edith  stopped. 

Almost  as  she  stopped,  the  two  figures  stopped  ; and 
that  one  which  to  Edith^s  thinking  was  like  a distorted 
shadow  of  her  mother,  spoke  to  the  other,  earnestly,  and 
with  a pointing  hand  towards  them.  That  one  seemed 
inclined  to  turn  back,  but  the  other,  in  which  Edith 
recognised  enough  that  was  like  herself  to  strike  hei 
with  an  unusual  feeling,  not  quite  free  from  fear,  came 
on  ; and  then  they  came  on  together. 

The  greater  part  of  this  observation,  she  made  while 
walking  towards  them,  for  her  stoppage  had  been 
momentary.  Nearer  observation  showed  her  that  they 
were  poorly  dressed,  as  wanderers  about  the  country  ; 
that  the  younger  woman  carried  knitted  work  or  some 
such  goods  for  sale  ; and  that  the  old  one  toiled  on 
empty-handed. 

And  yet,  however  far  removed  she  was  in  dress,  in 
dignity,  in  beauty,  Edith  could  not  but  compare  the 
younger  woman  with  herself,  still.  It  may  have  been 
that  she  saw  upon  her  face  some  traces  which  she  knew 
were  lingering  in  her  own  soul,  if  not  yet  written  on 
that  index ; but,  as  the  woman  came  on,  returning  her 
gaze,  fixing  her  shining  eyes  upon  her,  undoubtedly 
presenting  something  of  her  own  air  and  stature,  and 
appearing  to  reciprocate  her  own  thoughts,  she  felt  a 
chill  creep  over  her,  as  if  the  day  were  darkening,  and 
the  wind  were  colder. 

They  had  now  come  up.  The  old  woman  holding  out 
her  hand  importunately,  stopped  to  beg  of  Mrs.  Skewton. 
The  younger  one  stopped  too,  and  she  and  Edith  looked 
in  one  another's  eyes. 

What  is  that  you  have  to  sell  ?"  said  Edith. 

Only  this,"  returned  the  woman,  holding  out  her 
wares,  without  looking  at  them.  "‘I  sold  myself  long 
ago." 

My  lady,  don't  believe  her,"  croaked  the  old  woman 
to  Mrs.  Skewton  ; don't  believe  what  she  says.  She 
loves  to  talk  like  that.  She's  my  handsome  and  unduti- 
f ul  daughter.  She  gives  me  nothing  but  reproaches,  ma- 
lady, for  all  I have  done  for  her.  Look  at  her  now,  my 
lady,  how  she  turns  upon  her  poor  old  mother  with  her 
looks." 

As  Mrs.  Skewton  drew  her  purse  out  with  a trembling 
hand  and  eagerly  fumbled  for  some  money,  which  the 
other  old  woman  greedily  watched  for — their  heads  all 


804 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


but  toucbiiig  ill  their  hurry  and  decrepitude — Edith 
interposed  : 

I have  seen  you/"  addressing  the  old  woman,  ‘‘  be- 
fore.” 

"‘Yes,  my  lady,”  with  a curtsey.  “Down  in  War- 
wickshire. The  morning  among  the  trees.  When  you 
wouldn’t  give  me  nothing.  But  the  gentleman,  he  give 
me  something  ! O,  bless  him,  bless  him  ! ” mumbled  the 
ol^  woman,  holding  up  her  skinny  hand,  and  grinning 
frightfully  at  her  daughter. 

“It’s of  no  use  attempting  to  stay  me,  Edith  !”  said 
Mrs.  Skewton,  angrily  anticipating  an  objection  from 
her.  “You  know  nothing  about  it.  I v/on’t  be  dissuaded. 
I am  sure  this  is  an  excellent  woman,  and  a good 
mother.” 

“ Yes,  mj  lady,  yes,”  chattered  the  old  woman,  holding 
out  her  ava,ricious  hand.  “ Thankee,  my  lady.  Lord 
bless  you,  my  lady.  Sixpence  more,  my  pretty  lady,  as 
a good  mother  yourself.” 

“And  treated  undutifully  enough,  too,  my  good  old 
creature,  sometimes,  I assure  you,”  said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
whimpering.  “ There  ! Shake  hands  with  me.  You’re 
a very  good  old  creature — full  of  what’s-his-name — and 
all  that.  You’re  all  affection  and  et  cetera,  an’t  you  ? ” 

“ Oh  yes,  my  lady  ! ” 

“Yes,  I’m  sure  you  are  ; and  so’s  that  gentlemanly 
creature  Grangeby.  I must  really  shake  hands  with  you 
again.  And  now  you  can  go,  you  know  ; and  I hope,” 
addressing  the  daughter,  “ that  you’ll  show  more  grati- 
tude, and  natural  what’s-its-name,  and  all  the  rest  of  it 
— but  I never  did  remember  names — for  there  never  was 
a better  mother  than  the  good  old  creature’s  been  to  you. 
Come,  Edith  !” 

As  the  ruin  of  Cleopatra  tottered  off  whimpering,  and 
wiping  its  eyes  with  a gingerly  remembrance  of  rouge  in 
their  neighbourhood,  the  old  woman  hobbled  another 
way,  mumbling  and  counting  her  money.  Not  one  word 
more,  nor  one  other  gesture,  had  been  exchanged  be- 
tween Edith  and  the  younger  woman,  but  neither  had 
removed  her  eyes  from  the  other  for  a moment.  They 
had  remained  confronted  until  now,  when  Edith,  as  awak- 
ening from  a dream,  passed  slowly  on. 

“ You’re  a handsome  woman,”  muttered  her  shadow, 
looking  after  her  ; “ but  good  looks  won’t  save  us.  And 
you’re  a proud  woman  ; but  pride  won’t  save  us.  We 
had  need  to  know  each  other  when  we  meet  again  I ” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


305 


CHAPTER  XLI 

New  Voices  in  the  Waves. 

AlIj  2®  going  on  as  it  was  wont.  The  waves  are  hoarse 
with  repetition  of  their  mystery  : the  dust  lies  piled  upon 
the  shore  : the  sea-birds  soar  and  hover  ; the  winds  and 
clouds  go  forth  noon  their  trackless  Sight ; the  white 
arms  beckon,  in  the  moonlight,  to  the  invisible  country 
far  away. 

With  a tender  melancholy  pleasure,  Florence  finds  her- 
self again  on  the  old  ground  so  sadly  trodden,  yet  so 
happily,  and  thinks  of  him  in  the  quiet  place,  where  he 
and  she  have  many  and  many  a time  conversed  together, 
with  the  water  welling  up  about  his  couch.  And  now, 
as  she  sits  pensive  there,  she  hears  in  the  wild  low  mur- 
mur of  the  sea,  his  little  story  told  again,  his  very  words 
repeated ; and  finds  that  all  her  life  and  hopes,  and  griefs, 
since — in  the  solitary  house,  and  in  the  pageant  it  has 
changed  to — have  a portion  in  the  burden  of  the  marvel- 
lous song. 

And  gentle  Mr.  Toots,  who  wanders  at  a distance,  look- 
ing v/istfully  towards  the  figure  that  he  dotes  upon,  and 
has  followed  there,  but  cannot  in  his  delicacy  disturb  at 
such  a time,  likewise  hears  the  requiem  of  little  Dombey 
on  the  waters,  rising  and  falling  in  the  lulls  of  their  eter- 
nal madrigal  in  praise  of  Florence.  Yes  ! and  he  faintly 
understands,  poor  Mr.  Toots,  that  they  are  saying  some- 
thing of  a time  when  he  was  sensible  of  being  brighter 
and  not  addle-brained  ; and  the  tears  rising  in  his  eyes 
when  he  fears  that  he  is  dull  and  stupid  now,  and  good 
for  little  but  to  be  laughed  at,  diminish  his  satisfaction 
in  their  soothing  reminder  that  he  is  relieved  from  pres- 
ent responsibility  to  the  Chicken,  by  the  absence  of  that 
game  head  of  poultry  in  the  country,  training  (at  Toots's 
cost)  for  his  great  mill  with  the  Lark ey  "Boy. 

But  Mr.  Toots  takes  courage,  when  they  whisper  a kind 
thought  to  him  ; and  by  slow  degrees  and  with  many  in- 
decisive stoppages  on  the  way,  approaches  Florence. 
Stammering  and  blushing,  Mr.  Toots  affects  amazement 
when  he  comes  near  her,^and  says  (having  followed  close 
on  the  carriage  in  which  she  travelled,  every  inch  of  the 
way  from  London,  loving  even  to  be  choked  by  the  dust 
of  its  wheels)  that  he  never  was  so  surprised  in  all  his 
life. 

‘'And  you’ve  brought  Diogenes,  too.  Miss  Dombey  I” 
says  Mr.  Toots,  thrilled  through  and  through  by  the  touch 
of  the  small  hand  so  pleasantly  and  frankly  given  him. 

No  doubt  Diogenes  is  there,  and  no  doubt  Mr.  Toots  has 


306 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


reason  to  observe  Iiim,  for  lie  comes  straiglitwav  at  Mr. 
Toots’s  legs,  and  tumbles  over  himself  in  the  desperation 
with  which  he  makes  at  him,  like  a very  dog  of  Montar^ 
gis.  But  he  is  checked  by  his  sweet  mistress, 

Down,  Di,  down.  Don't  you  remember  who  first  made 
us  friends,  Di  ? For  shame  ! ” 

Oh  ! Well  may  Di  lay  his  loving  cheek  ^against  her 
hand,  and  run  off,  and  run  back,  and  run  round  her,  bark- 
ing, and  run  headlong  at  anybody  coming  by,  to  show  his 
devotion.  Mr.  Toots  would  run  headlong  at  anybody, 
too.  A military  gentleman  goes  past,  and  Mr.  Toots 
would  like  nothing  better  than  to  run  at  him,  full  tilt. 

'‘Diogenes  is  quite  in  his  native  air,  isn't  he,  Miss 
Dombey  ? " says  Mr.  Toots. 

Florence  assents,  with  a grateful  smile. 

"Miss  Dombey,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  "beg  your  pardon, 
but  if  you  would  like  to  walk  to  Blimber's,  I — I am  going 
there. " 

Florence  puts  Jier  arm  in  that  of  Mr.  Toots  without  a 
lycxrd,  and  they^walk  away  together,  with  Diogenes 
going  on  before.  Mr.  Toots’s  legs  shake  under  him ; 
and  though  he  is  splendidly  dressed,  he  feels  misfits, 
and  sees  wrinkles,  in  the  masterpieces  of  Burgess  and 
Co.,  and  wishes  he  had  put  on  that  brightest  pair  of 
boots. 

Doctor  Blimber's  house,  outside,  has  as  scholastic  and 
studious  an  air  as  ever  ; and  up  there  is  the  window 
where  she  used  to  look  for  the  pale  face,  and  where 
the  pale  face  brightened  when  it  saw  her,  and  the  wasted 
little  hand  waved  kisses  as  she  passed.  The  door  is 
opened  by  the  same  weak-eyed  young  man,  whose  im- 
becility of  grin  at  sight  of  Mr.  Toots  is  feebleness  of 
character  personified.  They  are  shown  into  the  doctor's 
study,  where  blind  Homer  and  Minerva  gave  them  au- 
dience as  of  yore,  to  the  sober  ticking  of  the  great  clock 
in  the  hall  ; and  where  the  globes  stand  still  in  their 
accustomed  places,  as  if  the  world  were  stationary  too, 
and  nothing  in  it  ever  perished  in  obedience  to  the  uni- 
versal law,  that,  while  it  keeps  it  on  the  roll  calls 
everything  to  earth. 

And  here  is  Doctor  Blimber,  with  his  learned  legs  ; and 
here  is  Mrs.  Blimber,  with  her  sky-blue  cap  ; and  here 
is  Cornelia,  with  her  sandy  little  row  of  curls,  and  her 
bright  spectacles,  still  working  like  a sexton  in  the 
graves  of  languages.  Here  is  the  table  upon  which  he 
sat  forlorn  and  strange,  the  " new  boy"  of  the  school; 
and  hither  comes  the  distant  cooing  of  the  old  boys,  at 
their  old  lives  in  the  old  room  on  the  old  principle  ! 

"Toots  ! " says  Doctor  Blimber,  "I  am  very  glad  to 
see  you.  Toots." 

Mr.  Toots  chuckles  in  reply. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


307 


Also  to  see  you,  Toots,  in  siicli  good  company,”  says 
Doctor  Blimber. 

^Mr.  Toots,  with  a scarlet  visage,  explains  that  he  has 
met  Miss  Dombey  by  accident,  and  that  Miss  Dombey 
wishing,  like  himself,  to  see  the  old  place,  they  have 
come  together. 

‘‘  You  will  like,”  says  Doctor  Blimber, to  step  among 
our  young  friends,  Miss  Dombey,  no  doubt.  All  fellow 
students  of  yours.  Toots,  once.  I think  we  have  no  new 
disciples  in  our  little  portico,  my  dear,”  says  Doctor 
Blimber  to  Cornelia,  since  Mr.  Toots  left  us.” 

Except  Bitlierstone,”  returns  Cornelia. 

Ay,  truly,”  says  the  doctor.  Bitherstone  is  new 
to  Mr.  Toots.” 

New  to  Florence,  too,  almost ; for,  in  the  school-room, 
Bitherstone — no  longer  Master  Bitherstone  of  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin’s — shows  in  collars  and  a neckcloth,  and  wears  a 
watch.  But  Bitherstone,  born  beneath  some  Bengal 
star  of  ill-omen,  is  extremely  inky  ; and  his  lexicon  has 
got  so  dropsical  from  constant  reference,  that  it  won’t 
shut,  and  yawns  as  if  it  really  could  not  bear  to  be  so 
bothered.  So  does  Bitherstone  its  master,  forced  at  Doc- 
tor Blimber’s  highest  pressure  ; but  in  the  yawn  of  Bith- 
erstone there  is  malice  and  snarl,  and  he  has  been  heard 
to  say  that  he  wishes  he  could  catch  old  Blimber  ” in 
India.  He’d  precious  soon  find  himself  carried  up  the 
country  by  a few  of  his  (Bitherstone’s)  coolies,  and 
handed  over  to  the  Thugs  ; he  can  tell  him  that. 

Briggs  is  still  grinding  in  the  mill  of  knowledge  ; and 
Toser,  too  ; and  Johnson,  too  ; and  all  the  rest ; the  older 
pupils  being  principally  engaged  in  forgetting,  with 
prodigious  labour,  everything  they  knew  when  they  were 
younger.  All  are  as  polite  and  pale  as  ever  ; and  among 
them,  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  with  his  bony  hand  and  bristly 
head,  is  still  hard  at  it ; with  his  Herodotus  stop  on  just 
at  present,  and  his  other  barrels  on  a shelf  behind  him. 

A mighty  sensation  is  created,  even  among  these  grave 
young  gentlemen,  by  a visit  from  the  emancipated 
Toots  ; who  is  regarded  with  a kind  of  awe,  as  one  who 
has  passed  the  Rubicon,  and  is  pledged  never  to  come 
back,  and  concerning  the  cut  of  whose  clothes,  and  fash- 
ion of  whose  jewelry,  whispers  go  about,  behind  hands  ; 
the  bilious  Bitherstone,  who  is  not  of  Mr.  Toots’s  time, 
affecting  to  despise  the  latter  to  the  smaller  boys,  and 
saying  he  knows  better,  and  that  he  should  like  to  see 
him  coming  that  sort  of  thing  in  Bengal,  where  his 
mother  has  got  an  emerald  belonging  to  him,  that  was 
taken  out  of  the  foot-stool  of  a rajah.  Come  now  ! 

Bewildering  emotions  are  awakened  also  by  the  sight 
of  Florence,  with  whom  every  young  gentleman  imme- 
diately falls  in  love,  again ; except,  as  aforesaid,  the 


308 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


bilious  Bitberstone,  wbo  declines  to  do  so,  out  of  contra- 
diction. Black  jealousies  of  Mr.  Toots  arise,  and  Briggs 
is  of  opinion  that  he  anT  so  very  old  after  all.  But  this 
disparaging  insinuation  is  speedily  made  nought  by  Mr. 
Toots  saying  aloud  to  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A. , How  are  you. 
Feeder  ? ” and  asking  him  to  come  and  dine  with  him 
to-day  at  the  Bedford  ; in  right  of  which  feats  he  might 
set  up  as  Old  Parr,  if  he  chose,  unquestioned. 

There  is  much  shaking  of  hands,  and  much  bowing, 
and  a great  desire  on  the  part  of  each  young  gentleman 
to  take  Toots  down  in  Miss  Hombey’s  good  graces  ; and 
then,  Mr.  Toots  having  bestowed  a chuckle  on  his  old 
desk,  Florence  and  he  withdraw  with  Mrs.  Blimber  and 
Cornelia  ; and  Doctor  Blimber  is  heard  to  observe  behind 
them  as  he  comes  out  last,  and  shuts  the  door,  ‘‘Gentle- 
men, we  will  now  resume  our  studies.”  For  that  and 
little  else  is  what  the  doctor  hears  the  sea  say,  or  has 
heard  it  saying  all  his  life. 

Florence  then  steals  away  and  goes  up-stairs  to  the  old 
bedroom  with  Mrs.  Blimber  and  Cornelia ; Mr.  Toots, 
who  feels  that  neither  he  nor  anybody  else  is  wanted 
there,  stands  talking  to  the  doctor  at  the  study-door,  or 
rather  hearing  the  doctor  talk  to  him,  and  wondering  how 
he  ever  thought  the  study  a great  sanctuary,  and  the 
doctor,  with  his  round  turned  legs,  like  a clerical  piano- 
forte, an  awful  man.  Florence  soon  comes  down  and 
takes  leave  ; Mr.  Toots  takes  leave  ; and  Diogenes,  who 
has  been  worrying  the  weak-eyed  young  man  pitilessly 
all  the  time,  shoots  out  at  the  door,  and  barks  a glad 
defiance  down  the  cliff  ; while  ’Melia,  and  another  of  the 
doctor's  female  domestics,  look  out  of  an  upper  window, 
laughing  “ at  that  there  Toots,”  and  saying  of  Miss 
Dombey,  “ But  really  though,  now — ain’t  she  like  her 
brother,  only  prettier  ? ” 

Mr.  Toots,  who  saw  when  Florence  came  down  that 
there  were  tears  upon  her  face,  is  desperately  anxious 
and  uneasy,  and  at  first  fee.rs  that  he  did  wrong  in  pro- 
posing the  visit.  But  he  is  soon  relieved  by  her  saying 
she  is  very  glad  to  have  been  there  again^  and  by  her 
talking  quite  cheerfully  about  it  all,  as  they  walked  on 
by  the  sea.  What  with  the  voices  there,  and  her  sweet 
voice  when  they  come  near  Mr.  Dombey’s  house,  and  Mr. 
Toots  must  leave  her,  he  is  so  enslaved  that  he  has  not  a 
scrap  of  free-will  left  ; when  she  gives  him  her  hand  at 
parting,  he  cannot  let  it  go. 

“ Miss  Dombey,  I beg  your  pardon,”  says  Mr.  Toots, 
in  a sad  fluster,  “ but  if  you  would  allow  me  to — to — ” 

The  smiling  and  unconscious  look  of  Florence  brings 
him  to  a dead  stop. 

“If  you  would  allow  me  to — if  you  would  not  consider 
it  a liberty,  Miss  Dombey,  if  I v;as  to — vrithout  any  en- 


DOMBEY  A:s^D  SON. 


809 


couragement  at  all,  if  I was  to  hope,  you  know,’"  gays 
Mr.  Toots. 

Florence  looks  at  him  inquiringly. 

“Miss  Dombey,’'  says  Mr.  Tqots,  who  feels  that  he  is 
in  for  it  now,  “ I really  am  in  that  state  of  adoration  of 
you  that  I don’t  know  what  to  do  with  myself.  I am  the 
most  deplorable  wretch.  If  it  wasn’t  at  the  corner  of 
the  square  at  present,  I should  go  down  on  my  knees, 
and  beg  and  entreat  of  you,  without  any  encouragement 
at  all.  Just  to  let  me  hope  that  I may — ^may  think  it  pos 
sible  that  you — ” 

“ Oh  if  you  please,  don’t  ! ” cries  Florence,  for  the 
m.oment  quite  alarmed  and  distressed.  “Oh,  piray  don’t, 
Mr.  Toots.  Stop,  if  you  please.  Don’t  say  any  more. 
As  a kindness  and  a favour  to  me,  don’t.” 

Mr.  Toots  is  dreadfully  abashed,  and  his  mouth  opens. 

“ You  have  been  so  good  to  me,”  says  Florence,*  “ I am 
so  grateful  to  you,  I have  such  reason  to  like  you  for 
being  a kind  friend  to  me,  and  I do  like  you  so  much  ; ” 
and  here  the  ingenuous  face  smiles  upon  him  with  the 
pleasantest  look  of  honesty  in  the  world  ; “that  I am 
sure  you  are  only  going  to  say  good  bye  ! ” 

“Certainly,  Miss  Dombey,”  says  Mr.  Toots,  “I — 1-— 
that’s  exactly  what  I mean.  It’s  of  no  consequence.  ” 

' ‘ Good  bye  ! ” cries  Florence. 

“ Good  bye.  Miss  Dombey  I”  stammers  Mr.  Toots.  “I 
hope  you  won’t  think  anything  about  it.  It’s — ^it’s  of  no 
consequence,  thank  you.  It’s  not  of  the  least  conse- 
quence in  the  world.” 

Poor  Mr.  Toots  goes  home  to  his  hotel  in  a state  of 
desperation,  locks  himself  into  his  bedroom,  flings  him- 
self upon  his  bed,  and  lies  there  for  a long  time  ; as  if  it 
were  of  the  greatest  consequence,  nevertheless.  But 
Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  is  coming  to  dinner,  which  happens 
well  for  Mr.  Toots,  or  there  is  no  knowing  when  he 
might  get  up  again.  Tdr.  Toots  is  obliged  to  get  up  to 
receive  him,  and  to  give  him  hospitable  entertainment. 

And  the  generous  influence  of  that  social  virtue,  hos- 
pitality (to  make  no  mention  of  wine  and  good  cheer), 
opens  Mr.  Toots’s  heart,  and  warms  him  to  conversation. 
He  does  not  tell  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  v/hat  passed  at  the 
comer  of  the  square  ; but  when  Mr.  Feeder  asks  him 
“When  it  is  to  come  off?”  Mr.  Toots  replies,  “that 
there  are  certain  subjects” — v/hich  brings  Mr.  Feeder 
down  a peg  or  two  immediately.  Mr.  Toots  adds,  that 
he  don’t  know  what  right  Blimber  had  to  notice  his  being 
in  Miss  Dombey ’s  company,  and  that  if  he  thought  he 
meant  impudence  by  it,  he  have  him  out,  doctor  or  no 
doctor ; but  he  supposes  it’s  only  his  ignorance.  Mr. 
Feeder  says  he  has  no  doubt  of  it. 

Mr.  Feeder,  however,  as  an  intimate  friend,  is  not  ex^ 


310 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


cinded  from  the  subject.  Mr.  Toots  merely  requires 
that  it  should  be  mentioned  mysteriously,  and  with  feel- 
ing. After  a few  glasses  of  wine,  he  gives  Miss  Dom- 
hey’s  health,  observing,  "'Feeder,  you  have  no  idea  of 
the  sentiments  with  which  I propose  that  toast. Mr. 
Feeder  replies,  " Oh  yes  I have,  my  dear  Toots  ; and 
greatly  they  redound  to  your  honour,  old  boy."’  Mr. 
Feeder  is  then  agitated  by  friendship,  and  shakes  hands  ; 
and  says,  if  ever  Toots  wants  a brother,  he  knows  wliere 
to  find  him,  either  by  post  or  parcel.  Mr.  Feeder  like- 
wise says,  that  if  he  may  advise,  he  would  recommend 
Mr.  Toots  to  learn  the  guitar,  or,  at  least,  the  flute  ; for 
women  like  music  when  you  are  paying  your  addresses 
to  'em,  and  he  has  found  the  advantage  of  it  himself. 

This  brings  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  to  the  confession  that 
he  has  his  eye  upon  Cornelia  Blimber.  He  informs  Mr. 
Toots  that  lie  don't  object  to  spectacles,  and  that  if  the 
doctor  were  to  do  the  handsome  thing  and  give  up  the 
business,  why,  there  they  are — provided  for.  He  says 
it's  his  opinion  that  when  a man  has  made  a handsome 
sum  by  his  business,  he  is  bound  to  give  it  up  ; and  that 
Cornelia  would  be  an  assistance  in  it  which  any  man 
might  be  proud  of.  Mr.  Toots  replies  by  launching 
wildly  out  into  Miss  Dombey's  praises,  and  by  insinua- 
tions that  sometimes  he  thinks  he  should  like  to  blow 
his  brains  out.  Mr.  Feeder  strongly  urges  that  it  would 
be  a rash  attempt,  and  shows  him,  as  a reconcilement  to 
existence,  Cornelia's  portrait,  spectacles  and  all. 

Thus  these  quiet  spirits  pass  the  evening  ; and  when 
it  has  yielded  place  to  night,  Mr.  Toots  walks  home 
with  Mr.  Feeder,  and  parts  with  him  at  Doctor  Blim- 
ber's  door.  But  Mr.  Feeder  only  goes  up  the  steps,  and 
when  Mr.  Toots  is  gone,  comes  down  again,  to  stroll 
upon  the  beach  alone,  and  think  about  his  prospects. 
Mr.  Feeder  plainly  hears  the  waves  informing  him,  as 
he  loiters  along,  that  Doctor  Blimber  will  give  up  the 
business  ; and  he  feels  a soft  romantic  pleasure  in  look- 
ing at  the  outside  of  the  house,  and  thinking  that  the 
doctor  will  first  paint  it,  and  put  it  into  thorough  repair. 

Mr.  Toots  is  likewise  roaming  up  and  down,  outside 
the  casket  that  contains  his  jewel ; and  in  a deplorable 
condition  of  mind,  and  not  unsuspected  by  the  police, 
gazes  at  a window  where  he  sees  a light,  and  which  he 
has  no  doubt  is  Florence's.  But  it  is  not,  for  that  is 
Mrs.  Skewton's  room  ; and  while  Florence,  sleeping  in 
another  chamber,  dreams  lovingly,  in  the  midst  of  the 
old  scenes,  and  their  old  associations  live  again,  the 
figure  which  in  grim  reality  is  substituted  for  the  patient 
boy's  on  the  same  theatre,  once  more  to  connect  it — but 
how  differently  ! — with  decay  and  death,  is  stretched 
there,  wakeful  and  complaining.  Ugly  and  haggard  it 


— Dombey  and  Son,  Vol.  Twelye,  page  311 


812 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


lies  upon  its  bed  of  unrest ; and  by  it,  in  the  terror  of 
her  un impassioned  loveliness — for  it  has  terror  in  the 
sutferer’s  failing  eyes — sits  Edith.  What  do  the  waves 
say,  in  the  stillness  of  the  night  to  them  ! 

Edith,  what  is  that  stone  arm  raised  to  strike  me. 
Don't  you  see  it  ? ” 

There  is  nothing,  mother,  but  your  fancy." 

‘'But  my  fancy!  Everything  is  my  fancy.  Look! 
Is  it  possible  that  you  don't  see  it  1 " 

“ Indeed,  mother,  there  is  nothing.  Should  I sit  un- 
moved if  there  were  any  such  thing  there  ? " 

“ Unmoved?  " looking  wildly  at  her—" it's  gone  now 
— and  why  are  you  so  unmoved  ? That  is  not  my  fancy, 
Edith.  It  turns  me  cold  to  see  you  sitting  at  my  side." 

“I  am  sorry,  mother." 

“Sorry  ! You  seem  always  sorry.  But  it  is  not  for 
me  I " 

With  that,  she  cries  ; and  tossing  her  restless  head 
from  side  to  side  upon  her  pillow,  runs  on  about  neg- 
lect, and  the  mother  she  has  been,  and  the  mother  the 
good  old  creature  was,  whom  they  met,  and  the  cold  re- 
turn the  daughters  of  such  mothers  make.  In  the  midst 
of  her  incoherence,  she  stops,  looks  at  her  daughter, 
cries  out  that  her  wits  are  going,  and  hides  her  face 
upon  the  bed. 

Edith,  in  compassion,  bends  over  her  and  speaks  to 
her.  The  sick  old  woman  clutches  her  round  the  neck, 
and  says,  with  a look  of  horror. 

“ Edith  I we  are  going  home  soon  ; going  back.  You 
mean  that  I shall  go  home  again  ? '' 

“Yes  mother,  yes." 

“ And  what  he  said — what's  his  name,  I never  could 
remember  names — major — that  dreadful  word,  when  we 
came  away — it's  not  true  ? EdUh  ! " with  a shriek  and 
a stare,  “ it's  not  that  that  is  tlie  matter  with  me." 

Night  after  night,  the  light  burns  in  the  window,  and 
the  figure  lies  upon  the  bed,  and  Edith  sits  beside  it, 
and  the  restless  waves  are  calling  to  them  both  the 
whole  night  long.  Night  after  night,  the  waves  are 
hoarse  with  repetition  of  their  mystery  ; the  dust  lies 
piled  upon  the  shore  ; the  sea-birds  soar  and  hover  ; the 
winds  and  clouds  are  on  their  trackless  flight ; the 
white  arms  beckon,  in  the  moonlight,  to  the  invisible 
country  far  away. 

And  still  the  sick  old  woman  looks  into  the  corner, 
where  the  stone  arm — part  of  a figure  of  some  tomb,  she 
says — is  raised  to  strike  her.  At  last  it  falls  ; and  then 
a dumb  old  woman  lies  upon  the  bed,  and  she  is  crooked, 
and  shrunk  up,  and  half  of  her  is  dead. 

Such  is  the  figure,  painted  and  patched  for  the  sun  to 
mock,  that  is  drawn  slowly  through  the  crowd  from  day 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


818 


to  day  ; looking,  as  it  goes,  for  the  good  old  creature 
who  was  such  a mother,  and  making  mouths  as  it  peers 
among  the  crowd  in  vain.  Such  is  the  figure  that  is  often 
wheeled  dovm  to  the  margin  of  the  sea,  and  stationed 
there  ; but  on  which  no  wind  can  J)low  freshness,  and 
for  which  the  murmer  of  the  ocean  has  no  soothing 
word.  She  lies  and  listens  to  it  by  the  hour  ; but  its 
speech  is  dark  and  gloomy  to  her,  and  a dread  is  on  her 
face,  and  when  her  eyes  wander  over  the  expanse,  they 
see  but  a broad  stretch  of  desolation  between  earth  and 
heaven. 

Florence  she  seldom  sees,  and  when  she  does,  is  angry 
wdth  and  mows  at  Edith  is  beside  her  always,  and  keeps 
Florence  away  ; and  Florence,  in  her  bed  at  night, 
trembles  at  the  thought  of  death  in  such  a shape,  and 
often  wakes  and  listens,  thinking  it  has  come.  No  one 
attends  on  her  but  Edith.  It  is  better  that  few  eyes 
should  see  her  ; and  her  daughter  watches  alone  by  the 
bedside. 

A shadow  even  on  that  shadowed  face,  a sharpening 
even  of  the  sharpened  features,  and  a thickening  of  the 
veil  before  the  eyes  into  a pall  that  shuts  out  the  dim 
world,  is  come.  Her  wandering  hands  upon  the  coverlet 
join  feebly  palm  to  palm,  and  move  towards  her  daugh- 
ter ; and  a voice  not  like  hers,  not  like  any  voice  that 
speaks  our  mortal  language — says  ‘‘  For  I nursed  you  ! ” 

Edith,  v/ithout  a tear,  kneels  down  to  bring  her  voice 
closer  to  the  sinking  head,  and  answers  : 

Mother,  can  you  hear  me  ? ” 

Staring  wide,  she  tries  to  nod  in  answer. 

Can  you  recollect  the  night  before  I married 

The  head  is  motionless,  but  it  exy^resses  somehow  that 
she  does. 

I told  you  then  that  I forgave  your  part  in  it,  and 
prayed  God  to  forgive  my  own.  I told  you  that  the  past 
was  at  an  end  between  us.  I say  so  now,  again.  Kiss 
me,  mother.^’ 

Edith  touches  the  white  lips,  and  for  a moment  all  is 
still.  A moment  afterwards,  her  mother,  with  her  girl- 
ish laugh,  and  the  skeleton  of  the  Cleopatra  manner, 
rises  in  her  bed. 

Draw  the  rose-coloured  curtains.  There  is  something 
else  upon  its  flight  besides  the  wind  and  clouds.  Draw 
the  rose-coloured  curtains  close  ! 

Intelligence  of  the  event  is  sent  to  Mr.  Dombey  in 
town,  who  waits  upon  Cousin  Feenix  (not  yet  able  to 
make  up  his  mind  for  Baden-Baden),  who  has  just  re- 
(Jeived  it  too.  A good-natured  creature  like  Cousin  Fee- 
nix is  the  very  man  for  a marriage  or  a funeral,  and  his 
position  in  the  family  renders  it  right  that  he  should  be 
consulted. 

Von.  12  — N 


814 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Dombey,*’  says  Cousin  Feenix,  upon  nay  soul,  I 
am  very  much  shocked  to  see  you  on  such  a melancholy 
occasion.  My  poor  aunt  ! She  was  a devilish  lively 
woman/' 

Mr.  Dombey  replies,  ''  Very  much  so." 

“ And  made  up,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  really  young, 
you  know,  considering.  I am  sure,  on  the  day  of  your 
marriage,  I thought  she  ^ was  good  for  another  twenty 
years.  In  point  of  fact,  I said  so  to  a man  at  Brooks's — 
little  Billy  Joper — you  know  him,  no  doubt— man  with  a 
glass  in  his  eye  ? " 

Mr.  Dombey  bows  a negative.  In  reference  to  the 
obsequies,"  he  hints,  ''whether  there  is  any  sugges- 
tions— " 

"Well  upon  my  life,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  stroking 
his  chin,  which  he  has  just  enough  of  hand  below  his 
wristbands  to  do  ; "I  really  don't  know.  There's  a Mau- 
soleum down  at  my  place,  in  the  park,  but  Fm  afraid  it's 
in  bad  repair,  and,  in  point  of  fact,  in  a devil  of  a state. 
But  for  being  a little  out  at  elbows,  I should  have  had  it 
put  to  rights  ; but  I believe  the  people  come  and  make 
pic-nic  parties  there  inside  the  iron  railings,” 

Mr.  Dombey  is  clear  that  this  won't  do. 

" There's  an  uncommon  good  church  in  the  village," 
says  Cousin  Feenix,  thoughtfully  ; pure  specimen  of 
the  Anglo-Norman  style,  and  admirably  well  sketched 
too  by  Lady  Jane  Finchbury — woman  with  tight  stays — 
but  they've  spoilt  it  with  whitewash,  I understand,  and 
it’s  a long  journey." 

" Perhaps  Brighton  itself,"  Mr.  Dombey  suggests. 

" Upon  my  honour,  Dombey,  I don't  thing  we  could 
do  better,"  says  Cousin  Feenix.  " It's  on  the  spot,  you 
see,  and  a very  cheerful  place." 

" And  when,"  hints  Mr.  Dombey,  " would  it  be  con- 
venient ? ” 

"I  shall  make  a point,"  says  Cousin  Feenix  "of 
pledging  myself  for  any  day  you  thinli  best.  I shall 
have  great  pleasure  (melancholy  pleasure,  of  course)  in 

following  my  poor  aunt  to  the  confines  of  the in  point 

of  fact,  to  the  grave,”  says  Cousin  Feenix,  failing  in  the 
other  turn  of  speech. 

"Would  Monday  do  for  leaving  town?"  says  Mr. 
Dombey. 

" Monday  would  suit  me  to  perfection,"  replies  Cousin 
Feenix.  Therefore  Mr.  Dombey  arranges  to  take  Cousin 
Feenix  down  on  that  day,  and  presently  takes  his  leave, 
attended  to  the  stairs  by  Cousin  Feenix,  who  says,  at 
parting,  "I'm  really  excessively  sorry,  Dombey,  that 
you  should  have  so  much  trouble  about  it  ; " to  which 
Mr.  Dombey  answers,  "Not  at  all.” 

At  the  appointed  time.  Cousin  Feenix  and  Mr.  Dom^ 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


315 


bey  meet,  and  go  down  to  Brighton,  and  representing, 
in  their  two  selves,  all  the  other  mourners  for  the  de- 
ceased lady’s  loss,  attend  her  remains  to  their  place  of 
rest.  Cousin  Feenix,  sitting  in  the  mourning-coach,  rec- 
ognises innumerable  acquaintances  on  the  road,  but 
takes  no  other  notice  of  them,  in  decorum,  than  check- 
ing them  off  aloud,  as  they  go  by,  for  Mr.  Dombey’s  in- 
formation, as  Tom  Johnson.  Man  with  cork  leg,  from 
White’s.  What  are  you  here.  Tommy  Foley  on  a 
blood  mare.  The  Smalder  girls  ” — and  so  forth.  At  the 
ceremony  Cousin  Feenix  is  depressed,  observing,  that 
these  are  the  occasions  to  make  a man  think,  in  point  of 
fact,  that  he  is  getting  shaky  ; and  his  eyes  are  really 
moistened,  when  it  is  over.  But  he  soon  recovers  ; and 
so  do  the  rest  of  Mrs.  Skewton’s  relatives  and  friends, 
of  whom  the  major  continually  tells  the  club  that  she 
never  did  wrap  up  enough  ; while  the  young  lady  with 
the  back,  who  has  so  much  trouble  with  her  eyelids, 
says,  with  a little  scream,  that  she  must  have  been 
enormously  old,  and  that  she  died  of  all  kinds  of  horrors, 
and  you  musn’t  mention  it. 

So  Edith’s  mother  lies  unmentioned  of  her  dear  friends, 
who  are  dear  to  the  waves  that  are  hoarse  with  repeti- 
tion of  their  mystery,  and  blind  to  the  dust  that  is  piled 
upon  the  shore,  and  to  the  white  arms  that  are  beckon- 
ing, in  the  moonlight,  to  the  invisible  country  far  away. 
But  all  goes  on,  as  it  was  wont,  upon  the  margin  of  the 
unknown  sea  ; and  Edith  standing  there  alone,  and  lis- 
tening to  its  waves,  has  dank  weed  cast  up  at  her  feet, 
to  strew  her  path  in  life  withal. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

Confidential  and  Accidental. 

Attiked  no  more  in  Captain  Cuttle’s  sable  slops  and 
sou’wester  hat,  but  dressed  in  a substantial  suit  of  brown 
livery,  which,  while  it  affected  to  be  a very  sober  and 
demure  livery  indeed,  was  really  as  self-satisfied  and 
confident  a one  as  tailor  need  desire  to  make,  Rob  the 
Grinder,  thus  transformed  as  to  his  outer  man,  and  alS 
regardless  within  of  the  captain  and  the  Midshipman,  ex- 
cept when  he  devoted  a few  minutes  of  his  leisure  time 
to  crowing  over  those  inseparable  worthies,  and  recall- 
ing, with  much  applauding  music  from  that  brazen  in- 
strument, his  conscience,  the  triumphant  manner  in 
which  he  had  disembarrassed  himself  of  their  company, 
now  served  his  patron,  Mr.  Carker.  Inmate  of  Mr. 
Carker’s  house,  and  serving  about  his  person,  Rob  kept 


316 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


his  round  eyes  on  the  white  teeth  with  fear  and  trem*» 
bling,  and  felt  that  he  had  need  to  open  them  wider  than 
ever. 

He  could  not  have  quaked  more,  through  his  whole 
being,  before  the  teeth,  though  he  had  come  into  the 
service  of  some  powerful  enchanter,  and  they  had  been 
his  strongest  spells.  The  boy  had  a sense  of  power  and 
authority  in  this  patron  of  his  that  engrossed  his  whole 
attention  and  exacted  his  most  implicit  submission  and 
obedience.  He  hardly  considered  himself  safe  in  think- 
ing about  him  when  he  was  absent,  lest  he  should  feel 
himself  immediately  taken  by  the  throat  again,  as  on  the 
morning  when  he  first  became  bound  to  him,  and  should 
see  every  one  of  the  teeth  finding  him  out,  and  taxing 
him  with  every  fancy  of  his  mind.  Face  to  face  with 
him,  Rob  had  no  more  doubt  that  Mr.  Carker  read  his 
secret  thoughts,  or  that  he  could  read  them  by  the  least 
exertion  of  his  will  if  he  were  so  inclined,  than  he  had 
that  Mr.  Carker  saw  him  when  he  looked  at  him.  The 
ascendancy  was  so  complete,  and  held  him  in  such  eu' 
thralment,  that,  hardly  daring  to  think  at  all,  but  with 
his  mind  filled  with  a constantly  dilating  impression  of 
his  patron’s  irresistible  command  over  him,  and  power  of 
doing  anything  with  him,  he  would  stand  watching  his 
pleasure,  and  trying  to  anticipate  his  orders,  in  a state 
of  mental  suspension,  as  to  all  other  things. 

Rob  had  not  informed  himself  perhaps — in  his  then 
state  of  mind  it  would  have  been  an  act  of  no  common 
temerity  to  inquire — whether  he  yielded  so  completely 
to  this  influence  in  any  part,  because  he  had  floating  sus- 
picions of  his  patron’s  being  a master  of  certain  treach- 
erous arts  in  which  he  had  himself  been  a poor  scholar 
at  the  Grinders’  School.  But  certainly  Rob  admired  him 
as  well  as  feared  him.  Mr.  Carker,  perhaps,  was  better 
acquainted  with  the  sources  of  his  power,  which  lost 
nothing  by  his  management  of  it. 

On  the  very  night  when  he  left  the  captain’s  service, 
Rob,  after  disposing  of  his  pigeons,  and  even  making  a 
bad  bargain  in  his  hurry,  had  gone  straight  down  to  Mr. 
Carker’s  house,  and  hotly  presented  himself  before  his 
new  master  with  a glowing  face  that  seemed  to  expect 
commendation. 

‘^Wliat,  scapegrace!”  said  Mr.  Carker,  glancing  at 
his  bundle.  ‘ " Have  you  left  your  situation  and  come  to 
me?” 

'‘Oh  if  you  please,  sir,”  faltered  Rob,  “you  said,  you 
know  when  I.  come  here  last — ” 

“/said,”  returned  Mr.  Carker,  “what  did  I say?” 

“ If  you  please,  sir,  you  didn’t  say  nothing  at  all,  sir,’' 
returned  Rob,  warned  by  the  manner  of  this  inquiry, 
and  very  much  disconcerted. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


317 


His  patron  looked  at  him  with  a wide  display  of  gums, 
and  shaking  his  forefinger,  observed  : 

‘"You’ll  come  to  an  evil  end,  my  vagabond  friend,  J 
foresee.  There’s  ruin  in  store  for  you.” 

“Oh  if  you  please,  don’t,  sir  !”  cried  Rob,  with  his 
legs  trembling  under  him.  “I’m  sure,  sir,  I only  want 
to  work  for  you,  sir,  and  to  v/ait  upon  you,  sir,  and  to  do 
faithful  whatever  I’m  bid,  sir.” 

“ Y'ou  had  better  do  faithfully  whatever  you  are  bid,” 
returned  his  patron,  “if  you  have  anything  to  do  with 
me.” 

“Yes,  I know  that,  sir,”  pleaded  the  submissive  Roh| 
“ I’m  sure  of  that,  sir.  If  you’ll  only  be  so  good  as  try 
me,  sir  1 And  if  you  ever  find  me  out,  sir,  doing  any- 
thing against  your  wishes,  I give  you  leave  to  kill  me.” 

“You  dog!”  said  Mr.  Carker,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair,  and  smiling  at  him  serenely.  “ That’s  nothing  to 
what  I’d  do  to  you,  if  you  tried  to  deceive  me.” 

“Yes,  sir,”  replied  the  abject  Grinder,  “ I’m  sure  you 
would  be  down  upon  me  dreadful,  sir.  I wouldn’t  at- 
tempt for  to  go  and  do  it,  sir,  not  if  I was  bribed  with 
golden  guineas.” 

Thoroughly  checked  in  his  expectation  of  commenda- 
tion, the  crest-fallen  Grinder  stood  looking  at  his  patron, 
and  vainly  endeavouring  not  to  look  at  him,  with  the 
uneasiness  which  a cur  will  often  manifest  in  a similar 
situation. 

‘ ‘ So  you  have  left  your  old  service,  and  come  here  to 
ask  me  to  take  you  into  mine,  eh  ? ” said  Mr.  Carker. 

“Yes,  if  you  please,  sir,”  returned  Rob,  who,  in  doing 
so,  had  acted  on  his  patron’s  own  instructions,  but  dared 
not  justify  himself  by  the  least  insinuation  to  that  effect. 

“Well  ! ” said  Mr.  Carker.  “You  know  me,  boy  ? ” 

“ Please,  sir,  yes,  sir,”  returned  Rob,  fumbling  with 
his  hat,  and  still  fixed  by  Mr.  Carker’s  eye,  and  fruitless- 
ly endeavouring  to  unfix  himself. 

Mr.  Carker  nodded.  ‘ ‘ Take  care  then  1 ” 

Rob  expressed  in  a number  of  short  bows  his  lively 
understanding  of  this  caution,  and  was  bowing  himself 
back  to  the  door,  greatly  relieved  by  the  prospect  of 
getting  on  the  outside  of  it,  when  his  patron  stopped 
him. 

“ Halloa  ! ” he  cried,  calling  him  roughly  back. 
“ You  have  been — shut  that  door.” 

Rob  obeyed  as  if  his  life  had  depended  on  his  alacrity. 

“You  have  been  used  to  eavesdropping.  Do  you  know 
what  that  means  ?” 

“Listening,  sir?”  Rob  hazarded,  after  some  embar- 
rassed reflection. 

His  patron  nodded.  “ And  watching,  and  so  forth.” 
wouldn’t  do  such  a thing  here,  sir,”  answered 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Bi8 

Bob ; upon  my  word  and  honour,  I wouldn’t,  sir,  I 
wish  I may  die  if  I would,  sir,  for  anything  that  could 
be  promised  to  me.  I should  consider  it  as  much  as  all 
the  world  was  worth,  to  offer  to  do  such  a thing,  unless 
I was  ordered,  sir.” 

“ You  had  better  not.  You  have  been  used,  too,  to 
babbling  and  tattling,”  said  his  patron,  with  perfect 
coolness.  Beware  of  that  here,  or  you’re  a lost  ras- 
cal,” and  he  smiled  again,  and  again  cautioned  him  with 
his  forefinger. 

The  Grinder’s  breath  came  short  and  thick  with  con- 
sternation. He  tried  to  protest  the  purity  of  his  inten- 
tions, but  could  only  stare  at  the  smiling  gentleman  in  a 
stupor  of  submission,  with  which  the  smiling  gentleman 
seemed  well  enough  satisfied,  for  he  ordered  him  down- 
stairs, after  observing  him  for  some  moments  in  silence, 
and  gave  him  to  understand  that  he  was  retained  in  his 
employment. 

This  was  the  manner  of  Rob  the  Grinder’s  engagement 
by  Mr.  Carker,  and  his  awe-stricken  devotion  to  that 
gentleman  had  strengthened  and  increased,  if  possible, 
Vith  every  minute  of  his  service. 

It  was  a service  of  some  months’  duration,  when  early 
one  morning,  Rob  opened  the  garden  gate  to  Mr.  Horn 
bey,  who  was  come  to  breakfast  with  his  master,  by 
appointment.  At  the  same  moment  his  master  himself 
came,  hurrying  forth  to  receive  the  distinguished  guest, 
and  give  him  welcome  with  ail  his  teeth. 

I never  thought,”  said  Carker,  when  he  had  assisted 
him  to  alight  from  his  horse,  to  see  you  here.  I’m 
sure.  This  is  an  extraordinary  day  in  my  calendar.  Iso 
occasion  is  very  special  to  a man  like  you,  who  may  do 
' anything  ; but  to  a man  like  me,  the  case  is  widely  dif- 
ferent.” 

You  have  a tasteful  place  here,  Carker,”  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  condescending  to  stop  upon  the  lawn,  to  look 
about  him. 

“ You  can  afford  to  say  so,  ” returned  Carker.  Thank 

you.” 

Indeed,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  lofty  patronage, 

any  one  might  say  so.  As  far  as  it  goes,  it  is  a very 
commodious  and  well-arranged  place — quite  elegant.” 

As  far  as  it  goes,  truly,”  returned  Carker,  with  an 
air  of  disparagement.  “ It  wants  that  qualification. 
Well  ! we  have  said  enough  about  it ; and  though  you 
can  afford  to  praise  it,  I thank  you  none  the  less.  Will 
you  walk  in  ?” 

Mr.  Dombey,  entering  the  house,  noticed,  as  he  had 
reason  to  do,  the  complete  arrangement  of  the  rooms, 
and  the  numerous  contrivances  for  comfort  and  effect 
that  abounded  there.  Mr.  Carker,  in  his  ostentation  of 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


319 


humility,  received  this  notice  with  a deferential  smile, 
and  said  he  understood  its  delicate  meaning,  and  appre- 
ciated it,  but  in  truth  the  cottage  was  good  enough  for 
one  in  his  position — better,  perhaps,  than  such  a man 
should  occupy,  poor  as  it  was. 

But  perhaps  to  you,  who  are  so  far  removed,  it  really 
does  look  better  than  it  is,’'  he  said,  with  his  false  moath 
distended  to  its  fullest  stretch.  Just  as  nionarchs  im- 
agine attractions  in  the  lives  of  beggars.” 

He  directed  a sharp  glance  and  a sharp  smile  at  Mr. 
Dombey  as  he  spoke,  and  a sharper  glance,  and  a sharper 
smile  yet,  when  Mr.  Dombey,  drawing  himself  up  before 
the  fire,  in  the  attitude  so  often  copied  by  his  second  in 
command,  looked  round  at  the  pictures  on  the  walls. 
Cursorily  as  his  cold  eye  wandered  over  them,  Carker’s 
keen  glance  accompanied  his,  and  kept  pace  with  his, 
marking  exactly  where  it  went,  and  what  it  saw.  As  it 
rested  on  one  picture  in  particul  ar,  Carker  hardly  seemed 
to  breathe,  his  sidelong  scrutiny  was  so  catlike  and  vigi- 
lant, but  the  eye  of  his  great  chief  passed  from  that,  as 
from  the  others,  and  appeared  no  more  impressed  by  it 
than  by  the  rest. 

Carker  looked  at  it— it  was  the  picture  that  resembled 
Edith — as  if  it  were  a living  thing  ; and  with  a wicked, 
silent  laugh  upon  his  face,  that  seemed  in  part  addressed 
to  it,  though  it  was  all  derisive  of  the  great  man  stand- 
ing so  unconscious  beside  him.  Breakfast  was  soon  set 
upon  the  table  : and,  inviting  Mr.  Dombey  to  a chair 
which  had  its  back  towards  this  picture,  he  took  his  own 
seat  opposite  to  it  as  usual. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  even  graver  than  it  was  his  custom  to 
be,  and  quite  silent.  The  parrot,  swinging  in  the  gilded 
hoop  within  her  gaudy  cage,  attempted  in  vain  to  attract 
notice,  for  Carker  was  too  observant  of  his  visitor  to  heed 
her  ; and  the  visitor,  abstracted  in  meditation,  looked 
fixedly,  not  to  say  sullenly,  over  his  stifl!  neckcloth,  with- 
out raising  his  eyes  from  the  tablecloth.  As  to  Rob,  who 
was  in  attendance,  all  his  faculties  and  energies  Avere  so 
locked  up  in  observation  of  his  master,  that  he  scarcely 
ventured  to  give  shelter  to  the  thought  that  the  visitor 
was  the  great  gentleman  before  whom  he  had  been  carried 
as  a certificate  of  the  family  health,  in  his  childhood, 
and  to  whom  he  had  been  indebted  for  his  leather  smalls. 

AIIoav  me,”  said  Carker,  suddenly,  to  ask  hovf 
Mrs.  Dombey  is  ? ” 

He  leaned  forAvard  obsequiously,  as  he  made  the  in- 
quiry, with  his  chin  resting  on  his  hand  ; and  at  the 
same  time  his  eyes  went  up  to  the  picture,  as  if  he  said 
to  it,  Now,  see,  how  I will  lead  him  on  1 ” 

Mr.  Dombey  reddened  as  he  answered  : 


320 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Mrs.  Dombey  is  quite  well.  You  remind  me,  Carker, 
of  some  conversation  that  I wish  to  have  with  you.” 

Robin,  you  can  leave  us,”  said  his  master,  at  whose 
mild  tones  Robin  started  and  disappeared,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  his  patron  to  the  last.  ‘'You  don’t  remember 
that  boy,  of  course  ? ” he  added,  when  the  immeshed 
Grinder  was  gone. 

“No,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  magnificent  indiffer- 
ence. 

“ Not  likely  that  a man  like  you  would.  Hardly  pos- 
sible,” murmured  Carker.  ‘ ‘ But  he  is  one  of  that  fam- 
ily from  whom  you  took  a nurse.  Perhaps  you  may  re- 
member having  generously  charged  yourself  with  his 
education  ? ” 

“Is  it  that  boy?”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a frown. 
“He  does  little  credit  to  his  education,  I believe.” 

“Why,  he  is  a young  rip,  I am  afraid,”  returned  Car- 
ker, with  a shrug.  “ He  bears  that  character.  But  the 
truth  is,  I took  him  into  my  service  because,  being  able 
to  get  no  other  employment,  he  conceived  (had  been 
taught  at  home,  I dare  say)  that  he  had  some  sort  of 
claim  upon  you,  and  was  constantly  trying  to  dog  your 
heels  with  his  petition.  And  although  my  defined  and 
recognized  connexion  with  your  affairs  is  merely  of  a 
business  character,  still  I have  that  spontaneous  interest 
in  everything  belonging  to  you,  that — ” 

He  stopped  again,  as  if  to  discover  whether  he  had 
led  Mr.  Dombey  far  enough  yet.  And  again,  with  his 
chin  resting  on  his  hand,  he  leered  at  the  picture. 

“Carker,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  “ I am  sensible  that  you 
do  not  limit  your — ” 

“Service,”  suggested  his  smiling  entertainer. 

“ No  ; I prefer  to  say  your  regard,”  observed  Mr. 
Dombey,  very  sensible,  as  he  said  so,  that  he  was  paying 
him  a handsome  and  flattering  compliment,  “ to  our  mere 
business  relations.  Your  consideration  for  my  feelings, 
hopes,  and  disappointments,  in  the  little  instance  you 
have  just  now  mentioned,  is  an  example  in  point.  I am 
obliged  to  you,  Carker.” 

Mr.  Carker  bent  his  head  slowly,  and  very  softly 
rubbed  his  hands,  as  if  he  were  afraid  by  any  action  to 
disturb  the  current  of  Mr.  Dombey’s  confidence. 

“ Your  allusion  to  it  is  opportune,”  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
after  a little  hesitation,  “ for  it  prepares  the  way  to 
what  I was  beginning  to  say  to  you,  and  reminds  me 
that  that  involves  no  absolutely  new  relations  between 
us,  although  it  may  involve  more  personal  confidence  on 
my  part  than  I have  hitherto — ” 

“Distinguished  me  with,”  suggested  Carker,  bending 
his  head  again : “ I will  not  say  to  you  how  honoured  I 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


321 


am  ; for  a man  like  you  well  knows  how  much  honour 
he  has  in  his  power  to  bestow  at  pleasure.” 

Mrs.  Dombey  and  myself,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  passing 
this  compliment  with  august  self-denial,  are  not  quite 
agreed  upon  some  points.  We  do  not  appear  to  under- 
stand each  other  yet.  Mrs.  Dombey  has  something  to 
learn.” 

“ Mrs.  Dombey  is  distinguished  by  many  rare  attrac- 
tions ; and  has  been  accustomed,  no  doubt,  to  receive 
much  adulation,”  said  the  smooth,  sleek  watcher  of  his 
slightest  look  and  tone.  "‘But  where  there  is  affection, 
duty,  and  respect,  any  little  mistakes  engendered  by 
such  causes  are  soon  set  right.” 

Mr.  Dombey’s  thoughts  instinctively  flew  back  to  the 
face  that  had  looked  at  him  in  his  wife’s  dressing-room, 
when  an  imperious  hand  was  stretched  towards  the  door  ; 
and  remembering  the  affection,  duty,  and  respect,  ex- 
pressed in  it,  he  felt  the  blood  rush  to  his  own  face  quite 
as  plainly  as  the  watchful  eyes  upon  him  saw  it  there. 

“Mrs.  Dombey  and  myself,”  he  went  on  to  say,  “ had 
some  discussion,  before  Mrs.  Skewton’s  death,  upon  the 
causes  of  my  dissatisfaction  ; of  which  you  will  have 
formed  a general  understanding  from  having  been  a wit- 
ness of  what  passed  between  Mrs.  Dombey  and  myself 
on  the  evening  when  you  were  at  our — at  my  house.” 

“When  I so  much  regretted  being  present,”  said  the 
smiling  Carker.  “ Proud  as  a man  in  my  position  nec- 
essarily must  be  of  your  familiar  notice — though  I give 
you  no  credit  for  it ; you  may  do  anything  you  please 
without  losing  caste— and  honoured  as  I was  by  an  early 
presentation  to  Mrs.  Dombey,  before  she  was  made  emi- 
nent by  bearing  your  name,  I almost  regretted  that  night, 
I assure  you,  that  I had  been  the  object  of  such  especial 
good  fortune.” 

That  any  man  could,  under  any  possible  circumstances, 
regret  the  being  distinguished  by  his  condescension  and 
patronage,  was  a moral  phenomenon  which  Mr.  Dombey 
could  not  comprehend.  He  therefore  responded,  with  a 
considerable  accession  of  dignity.  “ Indeed  ! And  why, 
Carker  ? ” 

“ I fear,”  returned  the  confidential  agent,  “ that  Mrs. 
Dombey,  never  very  much  disposed  to  regard  me  with 
favourable  interest — one  in  my  position  could  not  expect 
that,  from  a lady  naturally  proud,  and  v/hose  pride  be- 
comes her  so  well — may  not  easily  forgive  my  innocent 
part  in  that  conversation.  Your  displeasure  is  no  light 
matter,  you  must  remember  ; and  to  be  visited  with  it 
before  a third  party — ” 

“Carker,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  arrogantly;  “I  presume 
that  I am  the  first  consideration  ? ” 

“Oh  ! Can  there  be  a doubt  about  it?”  replied  the 


32S 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


other,  with  the  impatience  of  a man  admitting  a notori- 
ous and  incontrovertible  fact. 

‘'Mrs.  Dombey  becomes  a secondary  consideration, 
v/hen  we  are  both  in  question,  I imagine,'’  said  Mr. 
Dombey.  ' ' Is  that  so  ? " 

" Is  it  so?"  returned  Carker,  “ Do  you  know  better 
than  any  one,  that  you  have  no  need  to  ask  ?" 

“ Then  I hope,  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "that  your 
regret  in  the  acquisition  of  Mrs.  Dombey's  displeasure, 
may  be  almost  counterbalanced  by  your  satisfaction  in 
retaining  iny  confidence  and  good  opinion." 

"I  have  the  misfortune,  I find,"  returned  Carker,  "to 
have  incurred  that  displeasure.  Mrs.  Dombey  has  ex- 
pressed it  to  you?" 

"Mrs.  Dombey  has  expressed  various  opinions,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey,  with  majestic  coldness  and  indifference, 
"in  which  I do  not  participate,  and  which  I am  not  in^ 
dined  to  discuss,  or  to  recall,  I made  Mrs.  Dombey  ac, 
quainted,  some  time  since,  as  I have  already  told  you, 
with  certain  points  of  domestic  deference  and  submission 
on  which  I felt  it  necessary  to  insist,  I failed  to  con- 
vince Mrs.  Dombey  of  the  expediency  of  her  immediate- 
ly altering  her  conduct  in  those  respects,  with  a view  to 
her  own  peace  and  welfare,  and  my  dignity  ; and  I in- 
fomied  Mrs.  Dombey  that  if  1 should  find  it  necessary  to 
object  or  remonstrate  again,  I should  express  my  opinion 
to  her  through  yourself,  my  confidential  agent." 

Blended  with  the  look  that  Carker  bent  upon  him, 
was  a devilish  look  at  the  picture  over  his  head,  that 
struck  upon  it  like  a flash  of  lightning. 

"Now  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "Ido  not  hesitate 
to  say  to  you  that  I uill  carry  my  point.  I am  not  to  be 
trifled  with.  Mrs.  Dombey  must  understand  that  my 
will  is  law,  and  that  I cannot  allow  of  one  exception  to 
the  whole  rule  of  my  life.  You  wall  have  the  goodness 
to  undertake  this  charge,  w^hich,  coming  from  me,  is 
not  unacceptable  to  you,  1 hope,  whatever  regret  you 
may  politely  profess — for  which  I am  obliged  to  you  on 
behalf  of  Mrs.  Dombey  ; and  you  wall  have  the  goodness, 
I am  persuaded,  to  discharge  it  as  exactly  as  any  other 
commission." 

"You  know,"  said  Mr,  Carker,  " that  you  have  only 
to  command  me." 

"I  know,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a majestic  indication 
of  assent,  "that  I have  only  to  command  you.  It  is 
necessary  that  I should  proceed  in  this.  Mrs.  Dombey 
is  a lady  undoubtedly  highly  qualified,  in  many  respects, 
to—" 

" To  do  credit  even  to  your  choice,"  suggested  Carker, 
Wdtli  a fawning  show  of  teeth. 

" Yes  ; if  you  please  to  adopt  that  form  of  wwds," 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


323 


said  Mr.  Dorabey,  in  his  tone  of  state  ; and  at  present 
I do  not  conceive  that  Mrs.  Dombey  does  that  credit  to 
it,  to  which  it  is  entitled.  There  is  a principle  of  oppo- 
sition in  Mrs.  Dombey  that  must  be  eradicated  ; that 
must  be  overcome  : Mrs.  Dombey  does  not  appear  to  un- 
derstand,’’  said  Mr.  Dombey,  forcibly,  ‘"that  the  idea 
of  opposition  to  Me  is  monstrous  and  absurd.” 

We,  in  the  City,  know  you  better,”  replied  Carker, 
with  a smile  from  ear  to  ear. 

"‘You  know  me  better,”  said  Mr.  Dombey.  “I  hope 
so.  Though,  indeed,  I am  bound  to  do  Mrs.  Dombey 
the  justice  of  saying,  however  inconsistent  it  may  seem 
with  her  subsequent  conduct  (which  remains  unchanged), 
that  on  my  expressing  my  disapprobation  and  determina- 
tion to  her,  with  some  severity,  on  the  occasion  to  which 
I have  referred,  my  admonition  appeared  to  produce  a 
very  powerful  effect.”  Mr.  Dombey  delivered  himself 
of  those  words  with  most  portentous  stateliness.  “I 
wish  you  to  have  the  goodness,  then,  to  inform  Mrs. 
Dombey,  Carker,  from  me,  that  I must  recall  our  former 
conversation  to  her  remembrance,  in  some  surprise  that 
it  has  not  yet  had  its  effect.  That  I must  insist  upon 
her  regulating  her  conduct  by  the  injunctions  laid  upon 
her  in  that  conversation.  That  I am  not  satisfied  with 
her  conduct.  That  I am  greatly  dissatisfied  with  it. 
And  that  I shall  be  under  the  very  disagreeable  neces- 
sity of  making  you  the  bearer  of  yet  more  unwelcome 
and  explicit  communications,  if  she  has  not  the  good 
sense  and  the  proper  feeling  to  adapt  herself  to  my 
wishes  as  the  first  Mrs.  Dombey  did,  and  I believe  I 
may  add,  as  any  other  lady  in  her  place  would.” 

“ The  first  Mrs.  Dombey  lived  very  happily,”  said 
Carker. 

“The  first  Mrs.  Dombey  had  great  good  sense,”  said 
Mr.  Dombey,  in  a gentlemanly  toleration  of  the  dead, 
“and  very  correct  feeling.” 

“Is  Miss  Dombey  like  her  mother,  do  you  think 
said  Carker. 

Swiftly  and  darkly,  Mr.  Dombey's  face  changed.  His 
confidential  agent  eyed  it  keenly. 

“I  have  approached  a painful  subject,”  he  said,  in  a 
soft  regretful  tone  of  voice,  irreconcileable  with  his 
eager  eye.  “Pray  forgive  me.  I forget  these  chains 
of  association  in  the  interest  I have.  Pray  forgive  me.  ” 

But  for  all  he  said,  his  eager  eye  scanned  Mr.  Dorn- 
bey's  downcast  face  none  the  less  closely ; and  than  it 
shot  a strange  triumphant  look  at  the  picture,  as  ap-^ 
pealing  to  it  to  bear  witness  how  he  led  him  on  again, 
and  what  was  coming. 

“Carker,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  here  and  there 
upon  the  table,  and  speaking  in  a somewhat  altered  and 


324 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


more  hurried  voice,  and  with  a paler  lip,  ''there  is  no 
occasion  for  apology.  You  mistake.  The  association  is 
with  the  matter  in  hand,  and  not  with  any  recollection, 
as  you  suppose.  I do  not  approve  of  Mrs.  Dombey’s  be- 
haviour towards  my  daughter.'' 

" Pardon  me,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "I  don't  quite  under- 
stand. " 

"Understand  then,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  "that 
you  may  make  that — that  you  mil  make  that,  if  you 

E lease — matter  of  direct  objection  from  me  to  Mrs.  Dom- 
ey.  You  will  please  to  tell  her  that  her  show  of  de- 
votion for  my  daughter  is  disagreeable  to  me.  It  is  likely 
to  be  noticed.  It  is  likely  to  induce  people  to  contrast 
Mrs.  Dombey  in  her  relation  towards  my  daughter,  with 
Mrs.  Dombey  in  her  relation  towards  myself.  You  will 
have  the  goodness  to  let  Mrs.  Dombey  know,  plainly, 
that  I object  to  it ; and  that  I expect  her  to  defer,  im- 
mediately, to  my  objection.  Mrs.  Dombey  may  be  in 
earnest,  or  she  may  be  pursuing  a whim,  or  she  may  be 
opposing  me  ; but  I object  to  it  in  any  case,  and  in  every 
case.  If  Mrs.  Dombey  is  in  earnest,  so  much  the  less 
reluctant  should  she  be  to  desist  ; for  she  will  not  serve 
my  daughter  by  any  such  display.  If  my  wife  has  any 
superfluous  gentleness,  and  duty  over  and  above  her 
proper  submission  to  me,  she  may  bestow  them  where 
she  pleases,  perhaps  ; but  I will  have  submission  first  ! — 
Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  checking  the  unusual  emotion 
with  which  he  had  spoken,  and  falling  into  a tone  more 
like  that  in  which  he  was  accustomed  to  assert  his  great- 
ness, " you  will  have  the  goodness  not  to  omit  or  slur 
this  point,  but  to  consider  it  a very  important  part  of 
your  instructions." 

Mr.  Carker  bowed  his  head,  and  rising  from  the  table, 
and  standing  thoughtfully  before  the  fire,  with  his  hand 
to  his  smooth  chin,  looked  down  at  Mr.  Dombey  with  the 
evil  slyness  of  some  monkish  carving,  half  human  and 
half  brute  ; or  like  a leering  face  on  an  old  water-spout. 
Mr.  Dombey,  recovering  his  composure  by  degrees,  or 
cooling  his  emotion  in  his  sense  of  having  taken  a high 
position,  sat  gradually  stiffening  again,and  looking  at  the 
parrot  as  she  swung  to  and  fro,  in  her  great  wedding  ring. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Carker,  after  a silence, 
suddenly  resuming  his  chair,  and  drawing  it  opposite 
Mr.  Dom bey's,  "but  let  me  understand.  Mrs.  Dombey 
is  aware  of  the  probability  of  your  making  me  the  organ 
of  your  displeasure  ? " 

"Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Dombey.  "I  have  said  so." 
"Yes,"  rejoined  Carker,  quickly  ; "but  why?" 
"Why!"  Mr.  Dombey  repeated,  not  without  hesita- 
tion. " Because  I told  her." 

"Ay,"  replied  Carker.  "But  why  did  you  tell  her? 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


835 


You  see,”  lie  continued  with  a smile,  and  softly  laying 
his  velvet  hand,  as  a cat  might  have  laid  its  sheathed  claws, 
on  Mr.  Dombey'sarm  ; '"if  I perfectly  understand  what 
is  in  your  mind,  I am  so  much  more  likely  to  be  useful, 
and  to  have  the  happiness  of  being  effectually  employed. 
I think  I do  understand.  I have  not  the  honour  of  Mrs. 
Dombey's  good  opinion.  In  my  position,  I have  no 
reason  to  expect  it ; but  I take  the  fact  to  be,  that  I have 
not  got  it  ? ” 

" Possibly  not,”  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Consequently,”  pursued  Carker,  "your  making 
these  communications  to  Mrs.  Dombey  through  me,  is 
sure  to  be  particularly  unpalatable  to  that  lady  ? ” 

" It  appears  to  me,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  haughty 
reserve,  and  yet  with  some  embarrassment,  "that  Mrs. 
Dombey ’s  views  upon  the  subject  form  no  part  of  it  as 
it  presents  itself  to  you  and  me,  Carker.  But  it  may 
be  so.” 

"And — pardon  me — do  I misconceive  you,”  said  Car- 
ker, ' when  I think  you  descry  in  this,  a likely  means  of 
humbling  Mrs . Dombey ’s  pride — I use  the  word  as  ex- 
pressive of  a quality  which,  kept  within  due  bounds, 
adorns  and  graces  a lady  so  distinguished  for  her  beauty 
and  accomplishments— and,  not  to  say  of  punishing  her, 
but  of  reducing  her  to  the  submission  you  so  naturally 
and  justly  require  ?” 

" I am  not  accustomed,  Carker,  as  you  know,”  said 
Mr.  Dombey,  "to  give  such  close  reasons  for  any  course 
of  conduct  I think  proper  to  adopt,  but  I will  gainsay 
nothing  of  this.  If  you  have  any  objection  to  found 
upon  it,  that  is  indeed  another  thing,  and  the  mere  state- 
ment that  you  have  one  will  be  sufficient.  But  I have 
not  supposed,  I confess,  that  any  confidence  I could  in- 
trust to  you,  would  be  likely  to  degrade  you — ” 

" Oh  ! I degraded  ! ” exclaimed  Carker.  " In  your 
service  ! ” 

" — or  to  place  you,”  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  "in  a 
false  position.” 

‘ ' / in  a false  position  ! ” exclaimed  Carker.  ' ' I shall 
be  proud — delighted — to  execute  your  trust.  I could 
have  wished,  I own,  to  have  given  the  lady  at  whose 
feet  I would  lay  my  humble  duty  and  devotion — foi*  is 
she  not  your  wife  ! — no  new  cause  of  dislike  ; but  a wish 
from  you  is,  of  course,  paramount  to  every  other  con- 
sideration on  earth.  Besides,  when  Mrs.  Dombey  is  con- 
verted from  these  little  errors  of  judgment,  incidental, 
I would  presume  to  say,  to  the  novelty  of  her  situation, 
I shall  hope  that  she  will  perceive  in  the  slight  part  I 
take,  only  a grain — my  removed  and  different  sphere 
gives  room  for  little  more — of  the  respect  for  you,  and 
sacrifice  of  all  considerations  to  you,  of  which  it  will  be 


336 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


her  pleasure  and  privilege  to  garner  np  a great  store 
every  day. 

Mr.  Dombey  seemed  at  the  moment,  again  to  see  her 
with  her  hand  stretched  out  towards  the  door,  and  again 
to  hear  through  the  mild  speech  of  his  confidential  agent 
an  echo  of  the  words,  Nothing  can  make  us  stranger 
to  each  other  than  we  are  henceforth  ! ” But  he  shook 
off  the  fancy,  and  did  not  shake  in  his  resolution,  and 
said,  “ Certainly,  no  doubt.  ” 

“ There  is  nothing  more,''  quoth  Carker,  drawing  his 
chair  back  to  its  old  place —for  they  had  taken  little 
breakfast  as  yet — and  pausing  for  an  answer  before  he 
sat  down. 

'"Nothing,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "but  this.  You  will 
be  good  enough  to  observe,  Carker,  that  no  message  to 
Mrs.  Dombey  with  which  you  are  or  may  be  charged, 
admits  of  reply.  You  will  be  good  enough  to  bring  me 
no  reply.  Mrs.  Dombey  is  informed  that  it  does  not  be- 
come me  to  temporise  or  treat  upon  any  matter  that  is  at 
issue  between  us,  and  that  what  I say  is  final." 

Mr.  Carker  signified  his  understanding  of  these  creden- 
tials, and  they  fell  to  breakfast  with  what  appetite  thSy 
might.  The  Grinder  also,  in  due  time,  re- appeared, 
keeping  his  eyes  upon  his  master  without  a moment's 
respite,  and  passing  the  time  in  a reverie  of  worshipful 
terror.  Breakfast  concluded,  Mr.  Dombey's  horse  was 
ordered  out  again,  and  Mr.  Carker  mounting  his  own, 
they  rode  off  for  the  City  together. 

Mr.  Carker  was  in  capital  spirits,  and  talked  much. 
Mr.  Dombey  received  his  conversation  with  the  sovereign 
air  of  a man  who  had  a right  to  be  talked  to,  and  occa- 
sionally condescended  to  throw  in  a few  words  to  carry 
on  the  conversation.  So  they  rode  on  characteristically 
enough.  But  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  dignity,  rode  with  very 
long  stirrups,  and  a very  loose  rein,  and  very  rarely 
deigned  to  look  down  to  see  where  his  horse  went.  In 
consequence  of  which  it  happened  that  Mr.  Dombey's 
horse,  while  going  a round  trot  stumbled  on  some  loose 
stones,  threw  him,  rolled  over  him,  and  lashing  out 
with  his  iron  shod  feet,  in  his  struggles  to  get  up,  kicked 
him. 

Mr.  Carker,  quick  of  eye,  steady  of  hand,  and  a good 
horseman,  was  afoot,  and  had  the  struggling  animal 
upon  his  legs  and  by  the  bridle,  in  a moment.  Other- 
wise that  morning’s  confidence  would  have  been  Mr. 
Dombey’s  last.  Yet  even  with  the  flush  and  hurry  of 
this  action  red  upon  him,  he  bent  over  his  prostrate  chief 
with  every  tooth  disclosed,  and  muttered  as  he  stooped 
down,  " I have  given  good  cause  of  offence  to  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey, now,  if  she  knew  it  ! " 

" Mr.  Dombey  being  insensible,  and  bleeding  from  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


321 


head  and  face,  v/as  carried  by  certain  menders  of  the 
road,  under  Carker's  direction,  to  the  nearest  public- 
.house,  which  was  not  for  off,  and  where  he  was  soon 
attended  by  divers  surgeons,  who  arrived  in  quick  suc- 
cession from  all  parts,  and  who  seemed  to  come  by  some 
mysterious  instinct,  as  vultures  are  said  to  gather  aht)iut 
a camel  who  dies  in  the  desert.  After  being  at  some 
pains  to  restore  him  to  consciousness,  these  gentlemen 
examined  into  the  nature  of  his  injuries.  One  surgeon 
who  lived  hard  by  was  strong  for  a compound  fracture 
of  the  leg,  which  was  the  landlord’s  opinion  also  ; but 
two  surgeons  who  lived  at  a distance,  and  were  only  in 
that  neighbourhood  by  accident,  comlDated  this  opinion 
so  disinterestedly,  that  it  was  decided  at  last  that  the 
patient, though  severely  cut  and  bruised,  had  broken  no 
bones  but  a lesser  rib  or  so,  and  might  be  carefully  taken 
home  before  night.  His  injuries  being  dressed  and 
bandaged,  v/liich  was  a long  operation,  and  he  at  length 
left  to  repose,  Mr.  Carker  mounted  his  horse  again,  and 
rode  away  to  carry  the  intelligence  home. 

Crafty  and  cruel  as  his  face  was  at  the  best  of  times, 
though  it  was  a sufficiently  fair  face  as  to  form  and  regu- 
larity of  feature,  it  was  at  its  worst  when  he  set  forth 
on  this  errand  ; animated  by  the  craft  and  cruelty  of 
thoughts  within  him,  suggestions  of  remote  possibility 
rather  than  of  design  or  plot,  that  made  him  ride  as  if 
he  hunted  men  and  women.  Drawing  rein  at  length, 
and  slackening  in  his  speed,  as  he  came  into  the  more 
public  roads,  he  checked  his  white  legged  horse  into 
picking  his  way  along  as  usual,  and  hid  himself  beneath 
his  sleek,  hushed,  crouching  manner,  and  his  ivory  smile 
as  he  best  could. 

He  rode  direct  to  Mr.  Dombey’s  house,  alighted  at  the 
door  and  begged  to  see  Mrs.  Dombey  on  an  affair  of  im- 
portance. The  servant  who  showed  him  to  Mr.  Dom- 
bey’s own  room  soon  returned  to  say  that  it  was  not  Mrs. 
Dombey’s  hour  for  receiving  visitors,  and  that  he  begged 
pardon  for  not  having  mentioned  it  before. 

Mr.  Carker,  w’ho  was  quite  prepared  for  a cold  recep- 
tion, wrote  upon  a card  that  he  must  take  the  liberty  of 
pressing  for  an  interview,  and  that  he  would  not  be  so 
bold  as  to  do  so,  for  the  second  time  (this  he  underlined), 
if  he  were  not  equally  sure  of  the  occasion  being  suffici- 
ent for  his  justification.  After  a trifling  delay,  Mrs. 
Dombey’s  maid  appeared  and  conducted  him  to  a morn- 
ing room  up'  itairs,  where  Edith  and  Florence  were  to- 
gether. 

He  had  never  thought  Edith  half  so  beautiful  before. 
Much  rshe  admired  the  graces  of  her  face  and  fonn,  and 
freshly  as  they  dwelt  within  his  sensual  remembrance, 
he  had  aever  thought  her  half  so  beautiful. 


3^8 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Her  glance  fell  haughtily  upon  him  in  the  doorway; 
but  he  looked  at  Florence — though  only  in  the  act  of 
bending  his  head,  as  he  came  in — with  some  irrepressi- 
ble expression  of  the  new  power  he  held  ; and  it  was  his 
triumph  to  see  the  glance  droop  and  falter,  and  to  see 
that  Edith  half  rose  up  to  receive  him. 

He  was  very  sorry,  he  was  deeply  grieved  ; he  could’nt 
say  with  what  unwillingness  he  came  to  prepare  her  for 
the  hitelligence  of  a very  slight  accident.  He  entreated 
Mrs . Dombey  to  compose  herself.  Upon  his  sacred  word 
of  honour,  there  was  no  cause  of  alarm.  But  Mr.  Dom- 
bey— 

Florence  uttered  a sudden  cry.  He  did  not  look  at  her, 
but  at  Edith.  Edith  composed  and  re-assured  her.  She 
uttered  no  cry  of  distress.  No,  no. 

Mr.  Dombey  had  met  with  an  accident  in  riding.  His 
horse  had  slipped,  and  he  had  been  thrown. 

Florence  wildly  exclaimed  that  he  was  badly  hurt ; 
that  he  was  killed  ! 

No.  Upon  his  honour,  Mr.  Dombey,  though  stunned  at 
first,  was  soon  recovered,  and  though  certainly  hurt  was 
in  no  kind  of  danger.  If  this  were  not  the  truth,  he, 
the  distressed  intruder,  never  could  have  had  the  cour- 
se to  present  himself  before  Mrs.  Dombey.  It  was  the 
truth  indeed,  he  solemnly  assured  her. 

All  this  he  said  as  if  he  were  answering  Edith,  and 
not  Florence,  and  with  his  eyes  and  his  smile  fastened 
on  Edith. 

He  then  went  on  to  tell  her  where  Mr.  Dombey  was 
lying,  and  to  request  that  a carriage  might  be  placed  at 
his  disposal  to  bring  him  home. 

""Mama,’^  faltered  Florence  in  tears,  "Mf  I might 
venture  to  go  ! 

Mr.  Carker,  having  his  eyes  on  Edith  when  he  heard 
these  words,  gave  her  a secret  look  and  slightly  shook 
his  head.  He  saw  how  she  battled  with  herself  before 
she  answered  him  with  her  handsome  *eyes,  but  he 
wrested  the  answer  from  her — he  showed  her  that  hs 
would  have  it,  or  that  he  would  speak  and  cut  Florence 
to  the  heart — and  she  gave  it  to  him.  As  he  had  looked 
at  the  picture  in  the  morning,  so  he  looked  at  her  after- 
wards, when  she  turned  her  eyes  away. 

I am  directed  to  request,”  he  said,  that  the'  new 
house-keeper — Mrs.  Pipchin,  I think,  is  the  name — ” 

Nothing  escaped  him.  He  saw,  in  an  instant,  that  she 
was  another  slight  of  Mr.  Dombey's  on  his  wife. 

— may  be  informed  that  Mr.  Dombey  wishes  to  have 
his  bed  prepared  in  his  own  apartments  down-stairs,  as 
he  prefers  those  rooms  to  any  other.  I shall  return  to 
Mr.  Dombey  almost  immediately.  That  every  possible 
attention  has  been  paid  to  his  comfort,  and  that  he  is  the 


DOMBBY  AND  SON. 


829 


object  of  every  possible  solicitude,  I need  not  assure 
you,  madam.  Let  me  again  say,  there  is  no  cause  for 
the  least  alarm.  Even  you  may  be  quite  at  ease,  be- 
lieve me.” 

He  bowed  himself  out,  with  his  extremest  show  of 
deference  and  conciliation  ; and  having  returned  to  Mr. 
Dombey's  room,  and  there  arranged  for  a carriage  being 
sent  after  him  to  the  City,  mounted  his  horse  again, 
and  rode  slowly  thither.  He  was  very  thoughtful  as  he 
went  along,  and  very  thoughtful  there,  and  very  thought- 
ful in  the  carriage  on  his  way  back  to  the  place  where 
Mr.  Dombey  had  been  left.  It  was  only  when  sitting 
by  that  gentleman's  couch  that  he  was  quite  himself 
again,  and  conscious  of  his  teeth. 

About  the  time  of  twilight,  Mr.  Dombey,  grievously 
afflicted  with  aches  and  pains,  was  helped  into  his  car- 
riage, and  propped  with  cloaks, and  pillows 't)n  one  side 
of  it,  while  his  confidential  agent  bore  him  company 
upon  the  other.  As  he  was  not  to  be  shaken,  they 
moved  at  little  more  than  a foot  pace  ; and  hence  it  was 
quite  dark  when  he  was  brought  home.  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
bitter  and  grim,  and  not  oblivious  of  the  Peruvian  mines, 
as  the  establishment  in  general  had  good  reason  to  know, 
received  him  at  the  door,  and  freshened  the  domestics 
with  several  little  sprinklings  of  wordy  vinegar,  while 
they  assisted  in  conveying  him  to  his  room.  Mr.  Car- 
ker  remained  in  attendance  until  he  was  safe  in  bed,  and 
then,  as  he  declined  to  receive  any  female  visitor,  but 
the  excellent  Ogress  who  presided  over  his  household, 
waited  on  Mrs.  Dombey  once  more,  with  his  report  on 
her  lord's  condition. 

He  again  found  Edith  alone  with  Florence,  and  he 
again  addressed  the  whole  of  his  soothing  speech  to 
Edith,  as  if  she  were  a prey  to  the  liveliest  and  most  af- 
fectionate anxieties.  So  earnest  he  was  in  his  respectful 
sympathy,  that,  on  taking  leave,  he  ventured — with  one 
more  glance  towards  Florence  at  the  moment — to  take 
her  hand,  and  bending  over  it,  to  touch  it  with  his  lips. 

Edith  did  not  withdraw  the  hand,  nor  did  she  strike 
Ms  fair  face  with  it,  despite  the  flush  upon  her  cheek, 
the  bright  light  in  her  eyes,  and  the  dilation  of  her 
whole  form.  But  when  she  was  alone  in  her  own  room, 
she  struck  it  on  the  marble  chimney-shelf,  so  that,  at 
one  blov/,  it  was  bruised,  and  bled  ; and  held  it  from 
her,  near  the  shining  fire,  as  if  she  could  have  thrust  it 
in  and  burned  it. 

Far  into  the  night  she  sat  alone,  by  the  sinking  blaze, 
in  dark  and  threatening  beauty,  watching  the  murky 
shadows  looming  on  the  wall,  as  if  her  thoughts  were 
tangible,  and  cast  them  there.  Whatever  shapes  of  out- 
rage and  affront,  and  black  foreshadowing^s  of  things 


S30  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


that  might  happen,  flickered,  indistinct  and.  giant-like, 
before  her,  one  resented  figure  marshalled  them  against 
her.  And  that  figure  was  her  husband. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

The  Watches  of  the  Night. 

Florence,  long  since  awakened  from  her  dream, 
mournfully  observed  the  estrangement  between  her 
father  and  Edith,  and  saw  it  widen  more  and  more,  and 
knew  that  there  was  great  bitterness  between  them 
every  day.  Each  day’s  added  knowledge  deepened  the 
shade  upon  her  love  and  hope,  roused  up  the  old  sorrow 
that  had  slumbered  for  a little  time,  and  made  it  even 
heavier  to  bear  than  it  had  been  before. 

It  had  been  hard — ^how  hard  may  none  but  Florence 
ever  know  ! — to  have  the  natural  affection  of  a true  and 
earnest  nature  turned  to  agony  ; and  slight,  or  stern  re- 
pulse, substituted  for  the  tenderest  protection  and  the 
dearest  care.  It  had  been  hard  to  feel  in  her  deep  heart 
what  she  had  felt,  and  never  know  the  happiness  of  one 
touch  of  response.  But  it  was  much  more  hard  to  be 
compelled  to  doubt  either  her  father  or  Edith,  so  affec- 
tionate and  dear  to  her,  and  to  think  of  her  love  for 
each  of  them,  by  turns,  with  fear,  distrust,  and  won- 
der. 

Yet  Florence  now  began  to  do  so  ; and  the  doing  of  it 
was  a task  imposed  upon  her  by  the  very  purity  of  her 
soul,  as  one  she  could  not  fly  from.  She  saw  her  father 
cold  and  obdurate  to  Edith,  as  to  her  ; hard,  inflexible, 
unyielding.  Could  it  be,  she  asked  herself  with  starting 
tears,  that  her  own  dear  mother  had  been  made  un- 
happy by  such  treatment,  and  had  pined  away  and  died  ? 
Then  she  would  think  how  proud  and  stately  Edith  was 
to  every  one  but  her,  with  what  disdain  she  treated  him, 
how  distantly  she  kept  apart  from  him,  and  what  she  had 
said  on  the  night  when  she  came  home  ; and  quickly  it 
Vonld  come  on  Florence,  almost  as  a crime,  that  she  loved 
one  who  was  set  in  opposition  to  her  father,  and  that  her 
father  knowing  of  it,  must  think  of  her  in  his  solitary 
room  as  the  unnatural  child  who  added  this  wrong  to  the 
old  fault,  SO  much  wept  for,  of  never  having  won  his 
fatherly  affection  from  her  birth.  The  next  kind  word 
from  Edith,  the  next  kind  glance,  would  shake  these 
thoughts  again,  and  make  them  seem  like  black  ingrati- 
tude ; for  who  but  she  had  cheered  the  drooping  heart 
of  Florence,  so  lonely  and  so  hurt,  and  been  its  best  of 
comforters  ! Thus,  with  her  gentle  nature  yearning  to 
them  both,  feeling  the  misery  of  both,  and  whispering 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


331 


doubts  of  her  own  duty  to  both,  Florence  in  ber  wider 
and  expanded  love,  and  by  the  side  of  Edith,  endured 
more,  than  when  she  had  hoarded  up  her  undivided  se- 
cret in  the  mournful  house,  and  her  beautiful  mama  had 
never  dawned  upon  it. 

One  exquisite  unhappiness  that  would  have  far  out- 
weighed this,  Florence  was  spared.  She  never  had  the 
least  suspicion  that  Edith  by  her  tenderness  for  her 
widened  the  separation  from  her  father,  or  gave  him 
new  cause  of  dislike.  If  Florence  had  conceived  the 
possibility  of  such  an  effect  being  wrought  by  such  a cause 
what  grief  she  would  have  felt,  what  sacrifice  she  would 
have  tried  to  make,  poor  loving  girl,  how  fast  and  sure 
her  quiet  passage  might  have  been  beneath  it  to  the 
presence  of  that  higher  Father  who  does  not  reject  His 
children’s  love,  or  spurn  their  tried  and  broken  hearts. 
Heaven  knows  ! But  it  was  otherwise,  and  that  was 
well. 

No  word  was  ever  spoken  between  Florence  and 
Edith  now,  on  these  subjects.  Edith  had  said  there 
ought  to  be  between  them,  in  that  wise,  a division,  and 
a silence  like  the  grave  itself  : and  Florence  felt  that  she 
was  right. 

In  tWs  state  of  affairs  her  father  was  brought  home 
suffering  and  disabled  : and  gloomily  retired  to  his  own 
rooms,  where  he  was  tended  by  servants,  not  approached 
by  Edith,  and  had  no  friend  or  companion  but  Mr.  Car- 
ker,  who  withdrew  near  midnight. 

"'And  nice  company  he  is.  Miss  Ploy,  ” said  - Susan 
Nipper.  " Oh,  he’s  a precious  piece  of  goods  ! If  ever 
he  wants  a character  don’t  let  him  come  to  me  whatever 
he  does,  that’s  all  I tell  him.” 

"Dear  Susan,”  urged  Florence,  "‘don’t !” 

""  Oh  it’s  very  well  to  say  " don’t  ’ Miss  Floy,  ” returned 
the  Nipper,  much  exasperated  ; ‘ ‘ but  raly  begging  your 
pardon  we’re  coming  to  such  passes  that  it  turns  all 
the  blood  in  a person’s  body  into  pins  and  needles,  with 
their  pints  all  ways.  Don’t  mistake  me.  Miss  Floy,  I 
don’t  mean  nothing  again  your  ma-in-law  who  has  al- 
ways treated  me  as  a lady  should  though  she  is  rather 
high  I must  say,  not  that  I have  any  right  to  object  to 
that  particular,  but  when  we  come  to  Mrs.  Pipchinses 
and  having  them  put  over  us  and  keeping  guard  at  your 
pa’s  door  like  crocodiles  (only  make  us  thankful  that 
they  lay  no  eggs ) we  are  a growing  too  outrageous  ! ” 

" Papa  thinks  well  of  Mrs.  Pipchin,  Susan,”  returned 
Florence, ""  and  has  a right  to  choose  his  housekeeper, you 
know.  Pray  don’t  ! ” 

""  Well,  Miss  Floy,”  returned  the  Nipper,  ""  when  you 
say  don’t,  I never  do  I hope,  but  Mrs.  Pipchin  acts  like 
early  gooseberries  upon  me  miss,  and  nothing  less.” 


332 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Susan  was  unusually  emphatic  and  destitute  of  punc- 
tuation in  her  discourse  on  this  night,  which  was  the 
night  of  Mr.  Domhey's  being  brought  home,  because, 
having  been  sent  down- stairs  by  Florence  to  inquire 
after  him,  she  had  been  obliged  to  deliver  her  message 
to  her  mortal  enemy  Mrs.  Pipchin  ; who,  without  carry- 
ing it  in  to  Mr.  Dombey  had  taken  upon  herself  to  re° 
turn  what  Miss  Nipper  called  a huffish  answer,  on  her 
own  responsibility.  This,  Susan  Nipper  construed  into 
presumption  on  the  part  of  that  exemplary  suiferer  by 
the  Peruvian  mines,  and  a deed  of  disparagement  upon 
her  young  lady,  that  was  not  to  be  forgiven  ; and  so  far 
her  emphatic  state  was  special.  But  she  had  been  in  a 
condition  of  greatly  increased  suspicion  and  distrust, 
ever  since  the  marriage  ; for,  like  most  persons  of  her 
quality  of  mind,  who  form  a strong  and  sincere  attach- 
ment to  one  in  the  different  station  which  Florence  oc- 
cupied, Susan  was  very  jealous,  and  her  jealousy  natu- 
rally attached  to  Edith,  who  divided  her  old  empire,  and 
came  between  them.  Proud  and  glad  as  Susan  Nipper 
truly  was,  that  her  young  mistress  should  be  advanced 
towards  her  proper  place  in  the  scene  of  her  old  neglect, 
and  that  she  should  have  her  father’s  handsome  wife  for 
her  companion  and  protectress,  she  could  not  relinquish 
any  part  of  her  own  dominion  to  the  handsome  wife, 
without  a grudge  and  a vague  feeling  of  ill-will,  for 
which  she  did  not  fail  to  find  a disinterested  justification 
in  her  sharp  perception  of  the  pride  and  passion  of  the 
lady’s  character.  From  the  back-ground  to  which  she 
had  necessarily  retired  somewhat,  since  the  marriage. 
Miss  Nipper  looked  on,  therefore,  at  domestic  affairs  in 
general,  with  a resolute  conviction  that  no  good  would 
come  of  Mrs.  Dombey  : always  being  very  careful  to 
publish  on  all  possible  occasions,  that  she  had  nothing 
to  say  against  her. 

Susan,”  said  Florence,  who  was  sitting  thoughtfully 
at  her  table,  ‘ ‘ it  is  very  late.  I shall  want  nothing  more 
to-night.” 

Ah,  Miss  Floy  ! ” returned  the  Nipper,  I am  sure  I 
often  wish  for  them  old  times  when  I sat  up  with  you 
hours  later  than  this  and  fell  asleep  through  being  tired 
out  when  you  was  as  broad  awake  as  spectacles,  but 
you’ve  ma’s-in-law  to  come  and  sit  with  you  now  Miss 
Floy  and  I’m  thankful  for  it  I’m  sure.  I’ve  not  a word 
to  say  against  ’em.” 

‘‘I  shall  not  forget  who  was  my  old  companion  when 
I had  none,  Susan,”  returned  Florence,  gently,  ‘'never  ! ” 
And  looking  up,  she  put  her  arm  round  the  neck  of  her 
humble  friend,  drew  her  face  down  to  hers,  and  bidding 
her  good  night,  kissed  it  ; which  so  mollified  Miss  Nip- 
per, that  slie  fell  a sobbing. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


833 


Now  my  dear  Miss  Floy,”  said  Susan,  'Met  me  go 
down- stairs  again  and  see  how  your  pa  is,  I know  you’re 
wretched  about  him,  do  let  me  go  down-stairs  again  and 
knock  at  his  door  my  own  self/’ 

“No,”  said  Florence,  “go  to  bed.  We  shall  hear 
more  in  the  morning.  I will  inquire  myself  in  the  morn- 
ing. Mama  has  been  down,  I dare  say  ; ” Florence 
blushed,  for  she  had  no  such  hope  ; “or  is  there  now, 
perhaps.  Good  night ! ” 

Susan  was  too  much  softened  to  express  her  private 
opinion  on  the  probability  of  Mrs.  Dombey’s  being  in  at- 
tendance on  her  husband* ; and  silently  withdrew.  Flo- 
rence, left  alone,  soon  hid  her  head  upon  her  hands  as 
she  had  often  done  in  other  days,  and  did  not  restrain 
the  tears  from  coursing  down  her  face.  The  misery  of 
this  domestic  discord  and  unhappiness ; the  withered 
hope  she  cherished  now,  if  hope  it  could  be  called,  of 
ever  being  taken  to  her  father’s  heart ; her  doubts  and 
fears  between  the  two  ; the  yearning  of  her  innocent 
breast  to  both  ; the  heavy  disappointment  and  regret  of 
such  an  end  as  this,  to  what  had  been  a vision  of  bright 
hope  and  promise  to  her  ; all  crowded  on  her  mind  and 
made  her  tears  flow  fast.  Her  mother  and  her  brother 
dead,  her  father  unmoved  towards  her,  Edith  opposed 
to  him  and  casting  him  away,  but  loving  her,  and  loved 
by  her,  it  seemed  as  if  her  affection  could  never  prosper, 
rest  where  it  would.  That  weak  thought  was  soon 
hushed,  but  the  thoughts  in  which  it  had  arisen  were 
too  true  and  strong  to  be  dismissed  with  it ; and  they 
made  the  night  desolate. 

Among  such  reflections  there  rose  up,  as  there  had 
risen  up  all  day,  the  image  of  her  father,  wounded  and 
in  pain,  alone  in  his  own  room,  untended  by  those  who 
should  be  nearest  to  him,  and  passing  the  tardy  hours  in 
lonely  suffering.  A frightened  thought  which  made  her 
•start  and  clasp  her  hands — though  it  was  not  a new  one 
in  her  mind — that  he  might  die,  and  never  see  her  or 
pronounce  her  name,  thrilled  her  whole  frame.  In  her 
agitation  she  thought,  and  trembled  while  she  thought 
of  once  more  stealing  down-stairs,  and  venturing  to  his 
door. 

She  listened  at  her  own.  The  house  was  quiet,  and 
all  the  lights  were  out.  It  was  a long,  long  time,  she 
thought,  since  she  used  to  make  her  nightly  pilgrim- 
ages to  this  door  ! It  was  a long,  long  time,  she  tried  to 
think,  since  she  had  entered  his  room  at  midnight,  and 
he  had  led  her  back  to  the  stair-foot ! 

With  the  same  child’s  heart  within  her,  as  of  old  : 
even  with  the  child’s  sweet  timid  eyes  and  clustering 
hair  : Florence  as  strange  to  her  father  in  her  early 
maiden  bloom,  as  in  her  nursery  time,  crept  down  the 


384 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


staircase,  listening  as  she  went,  and  drew  near  to  his 
room.  No  one  was  stirring  in  the  house.  The  door  was 
I artly  open  to  admit  air  ; and  all  was  so  still  within, 
that  she  could  hear  the  burning  of  the  fire,  and  count 
the  ticking  of  the  clock  that  stood  upon  the  chimney- 
piece. 

She  looked  in.  In  that  room  the  housekeeper  wrapped 
in  a blanket  was  fast  asleep  in  an  easy-chair  before  the 
fire.  The  doors  between  it  and  the  next  were  partly 
closed,  and  a screen  was  drawn  before  them  ; but  there 
was  a light  there,  and  it  shone  upon  the  cornice  of  his 
be  i.  All  was  so  very  still  that  she  could  hear  from  his 
breathing  that  he  was  asleep.  This  gave  her  courage  to 
pass  round  the  screen,  and  look  into  his  chamber. 

It  was  as  great  a start  to  come  upon  his  sleeping  face 
as  if  she  had  not  expected  to  see  it.  Florence  stood  ar- 
rested on  the  spot,  and  if  he  had  awakened  then,  must 
have  remained  there. 

There  was  a cut  upon  his  forehead,  and  they  had  been 
wetting  his  hair,  which  lay  bedabbled  and  entangled  on 
the  pillow.  One  of  his  arms,  resting  outside  the  bed, 
was  bandaged  up,  and  he  was  very  white.  But  it  was 
not  this,  that  after  the  first  quick  glance,  and  first  assur- 
ance of  his  sleeping  quietly,  held  Florence  rooted  to  the 
ground.  It  was  something  very  different  from  this,  and 
more  than  this,  that  made  him  look  so  solemn  in  her 
eyes. 

She  had  never  seen  his  face  in  all  her  life,  but  there 
had  been  upon  it — or  she  fancied  so — some  disturbing 
consciousness  of  her.  She  had  never  seen  his  face  in 
all  her  life,  but  hope  had  sunk  within  her,  and  her  timid 
glance  had  drooped  before  its  stern,  unloving,  and  repelF 
ing  harshness.  As  she  looked  upon  it  now,  she  saw  it, 
for  the  first  time,  free  from  the  cloud  that  had  darkened 
her  childhood.  Calm,  tranquil  night,  was  reigning  in 
its  stead.  He  might  have  gone  to  sleep,  for  anything 
she  saw  there,  blessing  her. 

Awake,  unldnd  father ! Awake  now,  sullen  man  I 
The  time  is  fiitting  by  ; the  hour  is  coming  with  an 
angry  tread.  Awake  I 

There  was  no  change  upon  his  face  ; and  as  she 
watched  it,  awfully,  its  motionless  repose  recalled  the 
faces  that  were  gone.  So  they  looked,  so  would  he  ; so 
she,  his  weeping  child,  who  should  say  when  ! so  all  the 
world  of  love  and  hatred  and  indifference  around  them  I 
When  that  time  should  come,  it  would  not  be  the  heavier 
to  him,  for  this  that  she  was  going  to  do  ; and  it  might 
fall  something  lighter  upon  her. 

She  stole  close  to  the  bed,  and  drawing  in  her  breath^ 
bent  down,  and  softly  kissed  him  on  the  face,  and  laid 
her  own  for  one  brief  moment  by  its  side,  and  put  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


335 


arm,  with  which  she  dared  not  touch  him,  round  about 
him  on  the  pillow. 

Awake,  doomed  man,  while  she  is  near  ! The  time  is 
hitting  by  ; the  hour  is  coming  with  an  angry  tread  ; its 
foot  is  in  the  house.  Awake  ! 

In  her  mind,  she  prayed  to  God  to  bless  her  father, 
and  to  soften  him  towards  her,  if  it  might  be  so  ; and  if 
not,  to  forgive  him  if  he  was  wrong,  and  pardon  her  the 
prayer,  which  almost  seemed  impiety.  And  doing  so, 
and*  looking  back  at  him  with  blinded  eyes,  and  steal, 
ing  timidly  away,  passed  out  of  his  room,  and  crossed 
the  other  and  was  gone. 

He  may  sleep  on  now.  He  may  sleep  on  while  he 
may.  But  let  him  look  for  that  slight  figure  w^hen  he 
wakes,  and  find  it  near  him  when  the  hour  is  come  ! 

Sad  and  grieving  was  the  heart  of  Florence  as  she 
crept  up-stairs.  The  quiet  house  had  grown  more  dis- 
mal since  she  came  down.  The  sleep  she  had  been  look- 
ing on,  in  the  dead  of  night,  had  the  solemnity  to  her 
of  death  and  life  in  one.  The  secrecy  and  silence  of  her 
own  proceeding  made  the  night  secret,  silent,  and  op- 
pressive. She  felt  unwdlling,  almost  unable  to  go  on  to 
her  own  chamber  ; and  turning  into  the  drawing-rooms, 
where  the  clouded  moon  was  shining  through  the  blinds, 
looked  out  into  the  empty  streets. 

The  wind  was  blowing  drearily.  The  lamps  looked 
pale,  and  shook  as  if  they  were  cold.  There  was  a dis- 
tant glimmer  of  something  th.at  was  not  quite  darkness, 
rather  than  of  light,  in  the  sky  ; and  foreboding  night 
was  shivering  and  restless,  as  the  dying  are  who  make 
a troubled  end,  Florence  remembered  how,  as  a 
watcher,  by  a sick  bed,  she  had  noted  this  bleak  time, 
and  felt  its  infiuence,  as  if  in  some  hidden  natural  an 
tipathy  to  it  ; and  now  it  was  very,  very  gloomy. 

Her  mama  had  not  come  to  her  room  that  night, 
which  was  one  cause  of  her  having  sat  late  out  of  her 
bed.  In  her  general  uneasiness,  no  less  than  in  her  ar- 
dent longing  to  have  somebody  to  speak  to,  and  to  break 
this  spell  of  gloom  and  silence,  Florence  directed  her 
steps  towards  the  chamber  where  she  slept. 

The  door  was  not  fastened  within,  and  yielded 
smoothly  to  her  hesitating  hand.  Bhe  was  surprised  to 
find  a bright  light  burning  ; still  more  surprised,  on  look- 
ing in,  to  see  that  her  mama,  but  partially  undressed, 
was  sitting  near  the  ashes  of  the  fire,  v/hich  had  crum- 
bled and  dropped  away.  Her  eyes  were  intently  bent 
upon  the  air  ; and  in  their  light,  and  in  her  face,  and  in 
her  form,  and  in  her  grasp  with  which  she  held  the  el- 
bows of  her  chair  as  if  about  to  start  up,  Florence  saw 
such  fierce  emotion  that  it  terrified  her. 

“ Mama  ! ” she  cried,  what  is  the  matter  I 


886 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


EditL.  started : looking  at  lier  witli  suck  a strange  dread 
ir  ker  face,  tkat  Florence  was  more  frigktened  tkan 
before. 

Mama  ! said  Florence,  hurriedly  advancing.  Dear 
mama  ! wkat  is  the  matter 

‘‘  I have  not  been  well,’’  said  Edith,  shaking,  and  still 
looking  at  her  in  the  same  strange  way.  I have  had 
bad  dreams,  my  love.” 

And  not  yet  been  to  bed,  mama  ? ” 

No,”  she  returned.  Half-waking  dreams.” 

Her  features  gradually  softened  ; and  suffering  Flor- 
Ciice  to  come  close  to  her,  within  her  embrace,  she  said 
in  a tender  manner,  ‘‘  But  what  does  my  bird  do  here  ! 
What  does  my  bird  do  here  ! ” 

I have  been  uneasy,  mama,  in  not  seeing  you  to- 
night, and  in  not  knowing  how  papa  was  ; and  I — ” 

Florence  stopped  there,  and  said  no  more. 

Is  it  late?”  asked  Edith,  fondly  putting  back  the 
curls  that  mingled  with  her  own  dark  hair,  and  strayed 
upon  her  face. 

‘‘Very  late.  Near  day.” 

“ Near  day  ! ” she  repeated  with  surprise. 

“Dear  mama,  what  have  you  done  to  your  hand?” 
said  Florence. 

Edith  drew  it  suddenly  away,  and,  for  a moment, 
looked  at  her  with  the  same  strange  dread  (there  was  a 
sort  of  wild  avoidance  in  it)  as  before  ; but  she  presently 
said  “ Nothing,  nothing.  A blow.”  And  then  she  said, 
“ My  Florence  ! ” And  then  her  bosom  heaved,  and  she 
was  weeping  passionately.  ^ 

“Mama!”  said  Florence.  “Oh  mama,  what  can  i 
do,  what  should  I do,  to  make  us  happier?  Is  there 
anything  ? ” 

“ Nothing,”  she  replied. 

“ Are  you  sure  of  that  ? Can  it  never  be  ? If  I speak 
now  of  what  is  in  my  thoughts,  in  spite  of  what  we  have 
agreed,”  said  Florence,  “ you  will  not  blame  me,  will 
you  ?” 

“It  is  useless,”  she  replied,  ‘ useless.  I have  told 
you,  dear,  that  I have  had  bad  dreams.  Nothing  can 
change  them,  or  prevent  their  coming  back.” 

“ I do  not  understand,”  said  Florence,  gazing  on  her 
agitated  face,  which  seemed  to  darken  as  slae  looked. 

“I  have  dreamed,”  said  Edith  in  a low  voice,  “of  a 
pride  that  is  all  powerless  for  good,  all  powerful  for 
evil  ; of  a pride  that  lias  been  galled  and  goaded,  through 
many  shameful  years,  and  has  never  recoiled  except  upon 
itself  ; a pride  that  has  debased  its  owner  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  deep  humiliation,  and  never  helped  its 
owner  boldly  to  resent  it  or  avoid  it,  or  to  say,  ‘ This 
shall  not  be  ! ’ a pride  that,  rightly  guided,  might  have 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


337 


led  perhaps  to  better  things,  but  which,  misdirected,  and 
perverted,  like  all  else  belonging  to  the  same  possessor, 
has  been  self-contempt,  mere  hardihood  and  ruin.’’ 

She  neither  looked  nor  spoke  to  Florence  now,  but 
went  on  as  if  she  were  alone. 

I have  dreamed,”  she  said,  of  such  indifference  and 
callousness,  arising  from  this  self-contempt ; this  wretch- 
ed, ineflScient,  miserable  pride  ; that  it  has  gone  on  with 
listless  steps  even  to  the  altar,  yielding  to  the  old,  fam- 
iliar, beckoning  finger, — oh  mother,  oh  mother  ! — while 
it  spurned  it ; and  willing  to  be  hateful  to  itself  for  once 
and  for  all,  rather  than  to  be  stung  daily  in  some  new 
form.  Mean,  poor  thing  ! ” 

And  now  with  gathering  and  darkening  ^emotion,  she 
.looked  as  she  had  looked  when  Florence  entered. 

And  I have  dreamed,”  she  said,  “ that  in  a first  late 
effort  to  achieve  a purpose,  it  has  been  trodden  on,  and 
trodden  down,  by  a base  foot,  but  turns  and  looks  upon 
him.  I have  dreamed  that  it  is  wounded,  hunted,  set 
upon  by  dogs,  but  that  it  stands  at  bay,  and  will  not 
yield  ; no,  that  it  cannot  if  it  would  ; but  that  it  is  urged 
on  to  hate  him,  rise  against  him,  and  defy  him  ! ” 

Her  clenched  hand  tightened  on  the  trembling  arm 
she  had  in  hers,  and  as  she  looked  down  on  the  alarmed 
and  wondering  face,  her  own  subsided.  Oh  Florence  ! ” 
she  said,  I think  I have  been  nearly  mad  to-night  !” 
and  humbled  her  proud  head  upon  her  neck,  and  wept 
again. 

Don’t  leave  me  ! be  near  me  I I have  no  hope  but  in 
you  ! ” These  words  she  said  a score  of  times. 

Soon  she  grev/  calmer,  and  was  full  of  pity  for  the 
tears  of  Florence,  and  for  her  waking  at  such  untimely 
hours.  And  the  day  now  dawning,  Edith  folded  her  in 
her  arms,  and  laid  her  down  upon  her  bed,  and,  not  ly- 
ing down  herself,  sat  by  her,  amd  bade  her  try  to  sleep., 
‘'For  you  are  v/eary,  dearest,  and  unhappy,  and  should 
rest.” 

“ I am  indeed  unhappy,  dear  mama,  to-night,”  said 
Florence.  But  you  are  weary  and  unhappy,  too.” 

“ Hot  when  you  lie  asleep  so  near  me,  sweet.” 

They  kissed  each  other,  and  Florence,  worn  out,  grad- 
ually fell  into  a gentle  slumber  ; but  as  her  eyes  closed 
on  the  face  beside  her,  it  was  so  sad  to  think  upon  the 
face  down-stairs,  that  her  hand  drew  closer  to  Edith  for 
some  comfort ; yet,  even  in  the  act,  it  faltered,  lest  it 
should  be  deserting  him.  So,  in  her  sleep,  she  tried  to 
reconcile  the  two  together,  and  to  show  them  that  she 
loved  them  both,  but  could  not  do  it,  and  her  waking 
grief  was  part  of  her  dreams. 

Edith,  sitting  by,  looked  down  at  the  dark  eyelashes 
lying  wet  on  the  flushed  cheeks,  and  looked  with  gentle- 
Toi..  12 


838 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


ness  and  pity,  for  slie  knev/  tlie  trutli.  But  no  sleep 
hung  upon  her  own  eyes.  As  the  day  came  on  she  still 
sat  watching  and  waking,  with  the  placid  hand  in  hers, 
and  sometimes  whispered,  as  she  looked  at  the  hushed 
face,  "‘Be  near  me,  Florence,  I have  no  hope  but  in 
you  r 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

A Separation. 

With  the  day,  though  not  so  early  as  the  sun,  uprose 
Miss  Susan  Nipper.  There  was  a heaviness  in  this 
young  maiden's  esceedingly  sharp  black  eyes,  that 
abated  somewhat  of  their  sparkling,  and  suggested— 
which  was  not  their  usual  character — the  possibility  of 
their  being  sometimes  shut.  There  was  likewise  a 
swollen  look  about  them,  as  if  they  had  been  crying 
over  night.  But  the  Nipper,  so  far  from  being  cast- 
down,  was  singularly  brisk  and  bold,  and  all  her  energies 
appeared  to  be  braced  up  for  some  great  feat.  This  was 
noticeable  even  in  her  dress,  which  was  much  more  tight 
and  trim  than  usual  ; and  in  occasional  twitches  of  her 
head,  as  she  went  about  the  house,  which  were  mightily 
expressive  of  determination. 

In  a word,  she  had  formed  a determination,  and  an 
aspiring  one  : it  being  nothing  less  than  this— to  pene-» 
trate  to  Mr.  Dombey's  presence,  and  have  speech  of  that 
gentleman  alone.  “I  have  often  said  I would,"  she  re- 
marked, in  a threatening  manner,  to  herself,  that  morn- 
ing, with  many  twitches  of  her  head,  “ and  now  I will!  " 

Spurring  herself  on  to  the  accomplishment  of  this 
desperate  design,  with  a sharpness  that  was  peculiar  to 
herself,  Susan  Nipper  haunted  the  hall  and  staircase 
during  the  whole  forenoon,  without  finding  a favourable 
opportunity  for  the  assault*  Not  at  all  baffled  by  this 
discomfiture,  which  indeed  had  a stimulating  effect,  and 
put  her  on  her  mettle,  she  diminished  nothing  of  her 
vigilance  ; and  at  last  discovered,  towards  evening,  that 
her  sworn  foe  Mrs.  Pipchin,  under  pretense  of  having 
sat  up  all  night,  was  dozing  in  her  own  room,  and  that 
Mr.  Dombey  was  lying  on  his  sofa,  unattended. 

With  a twitch — not  of  her  head  merely,  this  time,  but 
of  her  whole  self — the  Nipper  went  on  tiptoe  to  Mr. 
Bombey's  door,  and  knocked.  “Come  in!"  said  Mr. 
Bombey.  Susan  encouraged  herself  with  a final  twutch, 
and  went  in. 

Mr.  Bombey,  who  was  eyeing  the  fire,  gave  an  amazed 
look  at  his  visitor,  and  raised  himself  a little  on  his 
arm.  The  Nipper  dropped  a curtsey. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


339 


''What  do  you  want?’’  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"If  you  please,  sir,  I wish  to  speak  to  you,”  said 
Susan.  • 

Mr.  Dombey  moved  his  lips  as  if  he  were  repeating 
the  words,  but  he  seemed  so  lost  in  astonishment  at  the 
presumption  of  the  young  woman  as  to  be  incapable  of 
giving  them  utterance. 

"I  have  been  in  your  service,  sir,”  said  Susan  Nipper, 
with  her  usual  rapidity,  "now  twelve  year  a waiting 
on  Miss  Floy  my  own  young  lady  who  couldn’t  speak 
plain  when  I first  come  here  and  I was  old  in  this  house 
when  Mrs.  Richards  was  new,  I may  not  be  Meethosalem, 
but  I am  not  a child  in  arms.” 

Mr.  Dombey,  raised  upon  his  arm,  and  looking  at  her, 
offered  no  comment  on  this  preparatory  statement  of 
facts. 

" There  never  was  a dearer  or  a blesseder  young  lady 
than  is  my  young  lady,  sir,”  said  Susan,  " and  I ought 
to  know  a great  deal  better  than  some  for  I have  seen 
her  in  her  grief  and  I have  seen  her  in  her  joy  (there’s 
not  been  much  of  it)  and  I have  seen  her  with  her  brother 
and  I have  seen  her  in  her  loneliness  and  some  have 
never  seen  her,  and  I say  to  some  and  all — I do  ! ” and 
here  the  black-eyed  shook  her  head,  and  slightly  stamped 
her  foot ; " that  she  is  the  blessedest  and  dearest  angel 
is  Miss  Floy  that  ever  drew  the  breath  of  life,  the  more 
that  I was  torn  to  pieces  sir  the  more  I’d  say  it  though  I 
may  not  be  a Fox’s  Martyr.  ” 

Mr.  Dombey  turned  yet  paler  than  his  fall  had  made 
him,  with  indignation  and  astonishment ; and  kept  his 
eyes  upon  the  speaker  as  if  he  accused  them,  and  his 
ears  too,  of  playing  him  false. 

"No  one  could  be  anything  but  true  and  faithful  to 
Miss  Floy,  sir,”  pursued  Susan,  "and  I take  no  merit 
for  my  service  of  twelve  year,  for  I love  her — yes,  I say 
to  some  and  all  I do  ! ” — and  here  the  black-eyed  shook 
her  head  again,  and  slightly  stamped  her  foot  again,  and 
checked  a sob  ; "but  true  and  faithful  service  gives  me 
right  to  speak  I hope,  and  speak  I must  and  will  now, 
right  or  wrong.” 

"What  do  you  mean,  woman  !”  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
glaring  at  her.  " How  do  you  dare  ? ” 

" What  I mean,  sir,  is  to  speak  respectful  and  without 
offence,  but  out,  and  how  I dare  I know  not  but  I do  1 ” 
said  Susan.  " Oh  ! you  don’t  know  my  young  lady  sir 
you  don’t  indeed,  you’d  never  know  so  little  of  her,  if 
you  did.” 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  a fury,  put  his  hand  out  for  the  bell- 
rope  ; but  there  was  no  bell-rope  on  that  side  of  the  fiii'e, 
and  he  could  not  rise  and  cross  to  the  other  without  as- 


840 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


distance.  The  quick  eye  of  the  Nipper  detected  his 
helplessness  immediately,  and  now,  as  she  afterwards 
observed,  she  felt  that  she  had  got  him. 

‘"Miss  Floy,”  said  Susan  Nipper,  “ is  the  most  devoted 
and  most  patient  and  most  dutiful  and  beautiful  of 
daughters,  there  an't  no  gentlemen,  no  sir,  though  as 
great  and  rich  as  all  the  greatest  and  richest  of  England 
put  together,  but  might  be  proud  of  her  and  would  and 
ought.  If  he  knew  her  value  right,  he’d  rather  lose  his 
greatness  and  his  fortune  piece  by  piece  and  beg  his  way 
in  rags  from  door  to  door,  I say  to  some  and  all,  he 
would  I”  cried  Susan  Nipper,  bursting  into  tears,  “than 
bring  the  sorrow  on  her  tender  heart  that  I have  seen  it 
suffer  in  this  house  ! ” 

“Woman,”  cried  Mr.  Dombey,  “leave  the  room.” 

“ Begging  your  pardon,  not  even  if  I am  to  leave  the 
situation,  sir,”  replied  the  stedfast  Nipper,  “in  which  I 
have  been  so  many  years  and  seen  so  much — although  I 
hope  you’d  never  have  the  heart  to  send  me  from  Miss 
Floy  for  such  a cause— will  I go  now  till  I have  said  the 
rest,  I may  not  be  a Indian  widow  sir  and  I am  not  and  I 
would  not  so  become  but  if  I once  made  up  my  mind  to 
burn  myself  alive,  Fd  do  it ! And  I’ve  made  my  mind 
up  to  go  on.” 

Which  was  rendered  no  less  clear  by  the  expression  of 
Susan  Nipper’s  countenance,  than  by  her  words. 

“ There  an’t  a person  in  your  service,  sir,”  pursued 
the  black-eyed,  “that  has  always  stood  more  in  awe  of 
you  than  me  and  you  may  think  how  true  it  is  when  I 
make  so  bold  as  say  that  I have  hundreds  and  hundreds 
of  times  thought  of  speaking  to  you  and  never  been  able 
to  make  my  mind  up  to  it  till  last  night,  but  last  night 
decided  of  me.” 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  a paroxysm  of  rage  made  another 
grasp  at  the  bell- rope  that  was  not  there,  and,  in  its  ab- 
sence, pulled  his  hair  rather  than  nothing. 

“ I have  seen,”  said  Susan  Nipper,  “ Miss  Floy  strive 
and  strive  when  nothing  but  a child  so  sweet  and  patient 
that  the  best  of  women  might  have  copied  from  her,  I’vo 
seen  her  sitting  nights  together  half  the  night  through 
to  help  her  delicate  brother  with  his  learning.  I’ve  seen 
her  helping  him  and  watching  him  at  other  times — some 
well  know  when — I’ve  seen  her,  with  no  encouragement 
and  no  help,  grow  up  to  be  a lady,  thank  God  ! that  is 
the  grace  and  pride  of  every  company  she  goes  in,  and 
I’ve  always  seen  her  cruelly  neglected  and  keenly  feeling 
of  it — I say  to  some  and  all,  I have  ! — and  never  said  one 
word,  but  ordering  one’s  self  lowly  and  reverently  to- 
wards one’s  betters,  is  not  to  be  a worshipper  of  graven 
images,  and  I will  and  must  speak  ! ” 

“Is  there  anybody  there?”  cried  Mr.  Dombey,  calling 


DO  YOU  CALL  IT  MANAGING  THIS  ESTABLISHMENT,  MADAM  f ” SAID  MR.  DOMBEY. 

—Dombey  and  Son,  Vol.  Twelye,  page  341 


342 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


out.  Where  are  the  men  ? where  are  the  women?  Is 
there  no  one  there 

I left  my  dear  young  lady  out  of  bed  late  last  night/* 
said  Susan,  nothing  checked,  ‘‘and  I know  why,  for  you 
was  ill  sir  and  she  didn’t  know  how  ill  and  that  was 
enough  to  make  her  wretched  as  I saw  it  did. — I may  not 
be  a peacock  ; but  I have  my  eyes — and  I sat  up  a little 
in  my  own  room,  thinking  she  might  be  lonesome  and 
might  want  me,  and  I saw  her  steal  down-stairs  and 
come  to  this  door  as  if  it  was  a guilty  thing  to  look  at 
her  own  pa,  and  then  steal  back  again  and  go  into  them 
lonely  drawing-rooms,  a-crying  so,  that  I could  hardly 
bear  to  hear  it.  I can  not  "bear  to  hear  it,*’  said  Susan 
Nipper,  wiping  her  black  eyes,  and  fixing  them  undaunt- 
edly on  Mr.  Dombey’s  infuriated  face.  “ It’s  not  the 
first  time  I have  heard  it,  not  by  many  and  many  a time 
you  don’t  know  your  own  daughter,  sir,  you  don’t  know 
what  you’re  doing,  sir,  I say  to  some  and  all,”  cried 
Susan  Nipper,  in  a final  burst,  “that  it*s  a sinful 
shame  ! ” 

“ Why,  hoity,  toity  !”  cried  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
as  the  black  bombazeen  garments  of  that  fair  Peruvian 
Miner  swept  into  the  room.  “ What’s  this,  indeed  ! ” 

Susan  favoured  Mrs.  Pipchin  with  a look  she  had  in- 
vented expressly  for  her  when  they  first  became  ac- 
quainted, and  resigned  the  reply  to  Mr.  Dombey. 

“ What’s  this  ! ” repeated  Mr.  Dombey  almost  foaming. 
“What’s  this,  madam?  You  who  are  at  the  head  of 
this  household,  and  bound  to  keep  it  in  order,  have  rea- 
son to  inquire.  Do  you  know  this  woman  ? ” 

“ I know  very  little  good  of  her,  sir,”  croaked  Mrs. 
Pipchin.  “How  dare  you  come  here,  you  hussy? 
along  with  you  ! ” 

But  the  inflexible  Nipper,  merely  honouring  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin with  another  look,  remained. 

“ Do  you  call  it  managing  this  establishment,  madam,” 
said  Mr.  Dombey,  “ to  leave  a person  like  this  at  liberty 
to  come  and  talk  to  me  I A gentleman— in  his  own 
house — in  his  own  room — assailed  v/ith  the  impertinences 
of  women  servants  ! ” 

“ Well  sir,”  returned  Mrs.  Pipchin,  with  vengeance 
in  her  hard  gray  eye,  “ I exceedingly  deplore  it  : nothing 
can  be  more  irregular ; nothing  can  be  more  out  of 
all  bounds  and  reason  ; but  I regret  to  say,  sir,  that  this 
young  woman  is  quite  beyond  control.  She  has  been 
spoiled  by  Miss  Dombey,  and  is  amenable  to  nobody. 
You  know  you’re  not,”  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  sharply,  and 
shaking  her  head  at  Susan  Nipper.  ‘For  shame,  you 
hussy  ! Go  along  with  you  ! ” 

“ If  you  find  people  in  my  service  who  are  not  to  be 
controlled,  Mrs.  Pipchin,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  turning 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


343 


back  towards  the  fire,  ‘^you  know  what  to  do  with  tiiem, 
I presume.  You  know  what  you  are  here  for  ? Take 
her  away. 

Sir,  I know  what  to  do,’'  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin, 

and  of  course  shall  do  it.  Susan  Nipper,”  snapping 
her  up  particularly  short, a month’s  warning  from  this 
hour.  ” 

Oh,  indeed,”  cried  Susan,  loftily. 

^^Yes,”  returned  Mrs.  Pipchin,  '‘and  don’t  smile  at 
me,  you  minx,  or  I’ll  know  the  reason  why  ! Go  along 
with  you  this  minute  ! ” 

" I intend  to  go  this  minute,  you  may  rely  upon  it,” 
said  the  voluble  Nipper.  "1  have  been  in  this  house 
waiting  on  my  young  lady  a dozen  year  and  I won’t  stop 
in  it  one  hour  under  notice  from  a person  owning  to  the 
name  of  Pipchin,  trust  me,  Mrs.  P.” 

" A good  riddance  of  bad  rubbish  ! ” said  that  wrath- 
ful old  lady.  “Get  along  with  you,  or  I’ll  have  you 
carried  out  ! ” 

“ My  comfort  is,”  said  Susan,  looking  back  at  Mr. 
Pombey,  “ that  I have  told  a piece  of  truth  this  day 
which  ought  to  have  been  told  long  before  and  can’t  be 
told  too  often  or  too  plain  and  that  no  amount  of  Pip- 
chinses— I hope  the  number  of  ’em  mayn’t  be  great 
(here  Mrs.  Pipchin  uttered  a very  sharp  “ Go  along  with 
you  !”  and  Miss  Nipper  repeated  the  look)  “can  unsay 
what  I have  said,  though  they  gave  a whole  year  full  of 
warnings  beginning  at  ten  o’clock  in  the  forenoon  and 
never  leaving  off  till  twelve  at  night  and  died  of  the  ex^ 
haustion  which  would  be  a Jubilee  !” 

With  these  words.  Miss  Nipper  preceded  her  foe  out 
of  the  room  ; and  walking  up-stairs  to  her  own  apart- 
ment in  great  state,  to  the  choking  exasperation  of  the 
ireful  Pipchin,  sat  down  among  her  boxes  and  began  to 
ciy. 

From  this  soft  mood  she  was  soon  aroused,  with  a very 
wholesome  and  refreshing  effect,  by  the  voice  of  Mrs* 
Pipchin  outside  the  door. 

“Does  that  bold-faced  slut,”  said  the  fell  Pipchin, 
“ intend  to  take  her  warning,  or  does  she  not  ? ” 

Miss  Nipper  replied  from  within  that  the  person  de- 
scribed did  not  inhabit  that  part  of  the  house,  but  that 
her  name  was  Pipchin,  and  she  was  to  be  found  in  the 
housekeeper’s  room. 

“ You  saucy  baggage  ! ” retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin,  rattling 
at  the  handle  of  the  door.  “ Go  along  with  you  this 
minute.  Pack  up  your  things  directly  ! How  dare  you 
talk  in  this  way  to  a gentlewoman  who  has  seen  better 
days  ? ” 

To  which  Miss  Nipper  rejoined  from  her  castle,  that 
she  pitied  the  better  days  that  had  seen  Mrs.  Pipchin  ; 


344 


WOBKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


and  that  for  her  part  she  considered  the  worst  days  in 
the  year  to  be  about  that  lady’s  mark,  except  that  they 
were  much  too  good  for  her. 

“ But  you  needn’t  trouble  yourself  to  make  a noise  at 
my  door,”  said  Susan  Nipper,  nor  to  contaminate  the 
keyhole  with  your  eye,  Fm  packing  up  and  going  you 
may  take  your  affidavit.” 

The  Dowager  expressed  her  lively  satisfaction  at  this 
intelligence,  and  with  some  general  opinions  upon  young 
hussies  as  a race,  and  especially  upon  their  demerits 
after  being  spoiled  by  Miss  Dombej,  withdrew  to  pre^^ 
pare  the  Nipper’s  wages.  Susan  then  bestirred  herself 
to  get  her  trunhs  in  order,  that  she  might  make  an  im- 
mediate and  dignified  departure  ; sobbing  heartily  all 
the  time,  as  she  thought  of  Florence. 

The  object  of  her  regret  was  not  long  in  coming  to 
her,  for  the  news  soon  spread  over  the  house  that  Susan 
Nipper  had  had  a disturbance  with  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and 
that  they  had  both  appealed  to  Mr.  Dombey,  and  that 
there  had  been  an  unprecedented  piece  of  work  in  Mr. 
Dombey’s  room,  and  that  Susan  was  going.  The  latter 
part  of  this  confused  rumour,  Florence  found  to  be  so 
correct,  that  Susan  had  locked  the  last  trimk  and  was 
sitting  upon  it  with  her  bonnet  on,  when  she  came  into 
her  room. 

Susan!”  cried  Florence.  ‘'Going  to  leave  me! 
S’ou  1 ” 

“Oh  for  goodness  gracious  sake.  Miss  Floy,”  said 
Susan  sobbing,  “ don’t  speak  a word  to  me  or  I shall- 
demean  myself  before  them  Pi-i-pchinses,  and  I wouldn’t 
have  ’em  see  me  cry  Miss  Ploy  for  worlds  ! ” 

“Susan!”  said  Florence.  “My  dear  girl,  my  old 
friend  ! What  shall  I do  without  you  ? Can  you  bear 
to  go  away  so  ? ” 

“No-n-o-o,  my  darling  dear  Miss  Floy,  I can’t  indeed,” 
sobbed  Susan.  “But  it  can’t  be  helped,  I’ve  done  my 
duty,  miss,  I have  indeed.  It’s  no  fault  of  mine.  I am 
quite  resi-igned.  I couldn’t  stay  my  month  or  I could 
never  leave  you  then  ray  darling  and  I must  at  last  as  well 
as  at  first,  don’t  speak  to  me  Miss  Floy,  for  though  I’m 
pretty  firm  I’m  not  a marble  door-post,  my  own  dear.  ” 

“ What  is  it ! Why  is  it  ? ” said  Florence.  “ Won’t 
you  tell  me  ? ” For  Susan  was  shaking  her  head. 

“No-n-no,  my  darling,”  returned  Susan.  “Don’t  ask 
me,  for  I mustn’t,  and  whatever  you  do  don’t  put  in  a 
word  for  me  to  stop,  for  it  couldn’t  be  and  you’d  only 
wrong  yourself,  and  as  God  bless  you  my  own  precious 
and  forgive  me  any  harm  I have  done,  or  any  temper  I 
have  shown  in  all  these  many  years  ! ” 

With  which  entreaty,  very  heartily  delivered,  Susan 
hugged  her  mistress  in  her  arms. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


345 


**  My  darling  there’s  a many  that  may  come  to  serve 
you  and  be  glad  to  serve  you  and  who’ll  serve  you  well 
and  true,”  said  Susan,  ‘‘but  there  can’t  be  one  who’ll 
serve  you  so  affectionate  as  me  or  love  you  half  as 
dearly,  that’s  my  comfort.  Go-ood-bye,  sweet  Miss 
Floy!” 

“ Where  will  you  go,  Susan?  ” asked  her  weeping  mis- 
tress. 

I’ve  got  a brother  down  in  the  country  miss — a far- 
mer in  Essex,”  said  the  heart-broken  Nipper,  “that 
keeps  ever  so  many  co-o-ows  and  pigs  and  I shall  go 
down  there  by  the  coach  and  sto-op  with  him,  and  don’t 
mind  me,  for  I’ve  got  money  in  the  Savings’  Bank  my 
dear  and  needn’t  take  another  service  just  yet,  which  I 
couldn’t,  couldn’t,  couldn’t  do,  my  heart’s  own  mistress!” 
Susan  finished  with  a burst  of  sorrow,  which  was  oppor- 
tunely broken  by  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  talking  down- 
stairs ; on  hearing  which,  she  dried  her  red  and  swollen 
eyes,  and  made  a melancholy  feint  of  calling  jauntily  to 
Mr.  Towlinson  to  fetch  a cab  and  carry  down  her  boxes. 

Florence,  pale  and  hurried  and  distressed,  but  withheld 
from  useless  interference  even  here,  by  her  dread  of 
causing  any  new  division  between  her  father  and  his 
wife  (whose  stern,  indignant  face  had  been  a warning  to 
her  a few  moments  since),  and  by  her  apprehension  of 
being  in  some  way  unconsciously  connected  already  with 
the  dismissal  of  her  old  servant  and  friend,  followed, 
weeping,  down-stairs  to  Edith’s  .dressing-room,  whither 
Susan  betook  herself  to  make  her  parting  curtsey. 

“ Now,  here’s  the  cab,  and  here’s  the  boxes,  and  get 
along  with  you,  do  ! ” said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  presenting  her- 
self at  the  same  moment.  I beg  your  pardon,  ma’am, 
but  Mr.  Dombey’s  orders  are  imperative.” 

Edith,  sitting  under  the  hands  of  her  maid — she  was 
going  out  to  dinner — preserved  her  haughty  face,  and 
took  not  the  least  notice. 

“There’s  your  money,”  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  who,  in 
pursuance  of  her  system,  and  in  recollection  of  the  Mines, 
was  accustomed  to  rout  the  servants  about,  as  she  had 
routed  her  young  Brighton  boarders  ; to  the  everlasting 
acidulation  of  Master  Bitherstone,  “ and  the  sooner  this, 
house  sees  your  back  the  better.”  ^ 

Susan  had  no  spirits  even  for. the  look  that  belonged 
to  Mrs.  Pipchin  by  right ; so  she  dropped  her  curtsey  to 
Mrs.  Donibey  (who  inclined  her  head  without  one  word, 
and  whose  eye  avoided  every  one  but  Florence),  and  gave 
one  last  parting  hug  to  her  young  mistress,  and  received 
her  parting  embrace  in  return.  • Poor  Susan’s  face  at  this 
crisis,  in  the  intensity  of  her  feelings  and  the  determined 
suffocation  of  her  sobs,  lest  one  should  become  audible 
and  be  a triumph  to  Mrs.  Pipchin,  presented  a series  of 


346 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tlie  most  extraordinary  physiognomical  phenomena  ever 
witnessed. 

I beg  your  pardon,  miss,  Fm  sure,”  said  Towlinson, 
outside  the  door  with  the  boxes,  addressing  Florence, 

but  Mr.  Toots  is  in  the  dining-room,  and  sends  his  com- 
pliments, and  begs  to  know  how  Diogenes  and  master 
is.” 

Quick  as  thought,  Florence  glided  out  and  hastened 
down-stairs,  where  Mr.  Toots,  in  the  most  splendid  vest- 
ments, was  breathing  very  hard  with  doubt  and  agitation 
on  the  subject  of  her  coming. 

‘ " Oh,  how  de  do.  Miss  Dombey,”  said  Mr.  Toots, 

God  bless  my  soul  1 ” 

This  last  ejaculation  was  occasioned  by  Mr.  Toots’s  deep 
concern  at  the  distress  he  saw  in  Florence’s  face  : which 
caused  him  to  stop  short  in  a fit  of  chuckles,  and  become 
an  image  of  despair. 

“Dear  Mr.  Toots,”  said  Florence,  “ you  are  so  friendly 
to  me,  and  so  honest,  that  I am  sure  I may  ask  a favour 
of  you.” 

“ Miss  Dombey,”  returned  Mr.  Toots,  if  you’ll  only 
name  one,  you’ll — you’ll  give  me  an  appetite.  To  which,” 
said  Mr.  Toots,  with  some  sentiment,  “ I have  long  been 
a stranger.” 

“ Susan,  who  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,  the  oldest  friend 
I have,”  said  Florence,  “is  abojit  to  leave  here  suddenly, 
and  quite  alone,  poor  girl.  She  is  going  home,  a little 
way  into  the  country.  • Might  I ask  you  to  take  care  of 
her  until  she  is  in  the  coach  ? ” 

“ Miss  Dombey,”  returned  Mr.  Toots,  “ you  really  do 
me  an  honour  and  a kindness.  This  proof  of  your  con- 
fidence, after  the  manner  in  which  I was  Beast  enough 
to  conduct  myself  at  Brighton — ” 

“ Yes,”  said  Florence,  hurriedly — “ no— don’t  think  jf 
that.  Then  would  you  have  the  kindness  to — to  go  ? and 
to  be  ready  to  meet  her  when  she  comes  out  ? Thank 
you  a thousand  times  ! You  ease  my  mind  so  much. 
She  doesn’t  seem  so  desolate.  You  cannot  think  how 
grateful  I feel  to  you,  or  what  a good  friend  I am  sure 
you  are  I ” And  Florence  in  her  earnestness  thanked 
him  again  and  again  ; and  Mr.  Toots  in  Ms  earnestness, 
hurried,  away — ^but  backwards,  that  he  might  lose  no 
glimpse  of  her. 

FlorenceTiad  not  the  courage  to  go  out,  when  she  saw 
poor  Susan  in  the  hall,  with  Mrs.  Pipchin  driving  her 
forth,  and  Diogenes  jumping  about  her,  and  terrifying 
Mrs.  Pipchin  to  the  last  degree  by  making  snaps  at  her 
bombazeen  skirts,  and  howling  with  anguish  at  the  sound 
of  her  voice — for  the  good  duenna  was  the  dearest  and 
most  cherished  aversion  of  his  breast.  But  she  saw  Su- 
san shake  hands  with  the  servants  all  round,  and  turn 


f 


“miss  DOMBEY,'’  returned  MR.  TOOTS,  “ IF  YOU’LL  ONLY  NAME 
ONE,  you’ll — you’ll  GIVE  ME  AN  APPETITE  TO  WHICH 
I HAVE  LONG  BEEN  A STRANGER.” 

—Dombey  and  Son,  Vol.  Twelve,  page  347. 


348 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


once  to  look  at  her  old  home  ; and  she  saw  Biogenes 
bound  out  after  the  cab,  and  want  to  follow  it,  and  testi- 
fy an  impossibility  of  conviction  that  he  had  no  longer 
any  property  in  the  fare  ; and  the  door  was  shut,  and  the 
hurry  over,  and  her  tears  flowed  fast  for  the  loss  of  an  old 
friend,  whom  no  one  could  replace.  No  one.  No  one. 

Mr.  Toots,  like  the  leal  and  trusty  soul  he  was,  stopped 
the  cabriolet  in  a twinkling,  and  told  Susan  Nipper  of 
his  commission,  at  which  she  cried  more  then  before. 

“ Upon  my  soul  and  body  ! ’’  said  Mr.  Toots,  taking  his 
seat  beside  her,  feel  for  you.  Upon  my  word  and 
honour  I think  you  can  hardly  know  your  own  feelings 
better  than  I imagine  them.  I can  conceive  nothing 
more  dreadful  than  to  have  to  leave  Miss  Domhey.’' 

Susan  abandoned  herself  to  her  grief  now,  and  it  really 
was  touching  to  see  her. 

‘‘  I say,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  now,  don’t  I at  least  I mean 
now  do,  yau  know  ! ” 

Bo  what,  Mr.  Toots  ? ” cried  Susan. 

<<  Why,  come  home  to  my  place,  and  have  some  dinner 
before  you  start,”  said  Mr.  Toots.  My  cook’s  a most 
respectable  woman — one  of  the  most  motherly  people  I 
ever  saw-— and  she’ll  be  delighted  to  make  you  comfort- 
able. Her  son,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  as  an  additional  recom- 
mendation, was  educated  in  the  Blue-coat  School,  and 
blown  up  in  a powder  mill.” 

Susan  accepting  this  kind  offer,  Mr.  Toots  conducted 
her  to  his  dwelling,  where  they  were  received  by  the 
matron  in  question  who  fully  justified  his  character  of 
her,  and  by  the  Chicken  who  at  first  supposed,  on  seeing 
a lady  in  the  vehicle,  that  Mr.  Bombey  had  been  doubled 
up,  agreeably  to  his  old  recommendation,  and  Miss  Bom- 
bey abducted.  This  gentleman  awakened  in  Miss  Nipper 
some  considerable  astonishment;  for,  having  been  de- 
feated by  the  Larkey  Boy,  his  visage  was  in  a state  of 
such  great  dilapidation,  as  to  be  hardly  presentable  in  so- 
ciety with  comfort  to  the  beholders.  The  Chicken  him- 
self attributed  this  punishment  to  his  having  had  the 
misfortune  to  get  into  Chancery  early  in  the  proceedings, 
when  he  was  severely  fibbed  by  the  Larkey  one,  and  heav- 
ily grassed.  But  it  appeared  from  the  published  records 
of  that  great  contest  that  the  Larkey  boy  had  had  it  all 
his  own  way  from  the  beginning,  and  that  the  Chicken 
had  been  tapped,  and  bunged,  and  had  received  pepper, 
and  had  been  made  groggy,  and  had  come  up  piping,  and 
had  endured  a complication  of  similar  strange  inconve- 
niences, until  he  had  been  gone  into  and  finished. 

After  a good  repast,  and  much  hospitality,  Susan  set 
out  for  the  coach-office  in  another  cabriolet,  with  Mr. 
Toots  inside,  as  before,  and  the  Chicken  on  the  box,  who, 
whatever  distinction  he  conferred  on  the  little  party  by 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


349 


the  moral  weight  and  heroism  of  his  character,  was 
sca,rcely  ornamental  to  it,  physically  speaking,  on  account 
of  his  plasters  ; which  were  numerous.  But  the  Chicken 
had  registered  a vow,  in  secret,  that  he  would  never  leave 
Mr.  Toots  (who  was  secretly  pining  to  get  rid  of  him), 
for  any  less  consideration  than  the  good-will  and  fixtures 
of  a public-house  ; and  being  ambitious  to  go  into  that 
line,  and  drink  himself  to  death  as  soon  as  possible,  he 
felt  it  his  cue  to  make  his  company  unacceptable. 

The  night-coach  by  which  Susan  was  to  go,  v/as  on  the 
point  of  departure.  Mr.  Toots  having  put  her  inside, 
lingered  by  the  window,  irresolutely,  until  the  driver  was 
about  to  mount ; when  standing  on  a step,  and  putting  in 
a face  tliat  by  the  light  of  the  lamp  was  anxious  and 
confused,  he  said  abruptly  : 

“ I say,  Susan  1 Miss  Dombey,  you  know — ” 

"‘Yes,  sir.” 

“ Do  you  think  she  could — you  know — eh  ?” 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Toots,”  said  Susan,  "■  but  I 
don't  hear  you.” 

“ Do  you  think  she  could  be  brought,  you  know — not 
exactly  at  once,  but  in  time — in  a long  time — to — to  love 
me,  you  know  ! There  ! ” said  poor  Mr,  Toots. 

“ Oil  dear  no  !”  returned  Susan,  shaking  her  head. 

I should  say  never.  Ne — ver  ! ” 

“ Thank'ee  I ” said  Mr.  Toots.  “ It's  of  no  conse- 
quence. Good  night.  It's  of  no  consequence, 
thank'ee  1” 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

The  Trusty  Agent. 

Edith  went  out  alone  that  day,  and  returned  home 
early.  It  was  but  a few  minutes  after  ten  o’clock,  when 
her  carriage  rolled  along  the  street  in  which  she  lived. 

There  was  the  same  enforced  composure  on  her  face,  that 
there  had  been  when  she  was  dressing  ; and  the  wreath 
upon  her  head  encircled  the  same  cold  and  steady  brow. 
But  it  would  have  been  better  to  have  seen  its  leaves 
and  flowers  reft  into  fragments  by  her  passionate  hand, 
or  rendered  shapeless  by  the  fitful  searches  of  a throb- 
bing and  bewildered  brain  for  any  resting  place,  than 
adorning  such  tranquillity.  So  obdurate,  so  unapproach- 
able, so  unrelenting,  one  would  have  thought  that  nothing 
could  soften  such  a woman's  nature,  and  that  everything 
in  life  had  hardened  it. 

Arrived  at  her  own  door,  she  was  alighting,  when 
Gome  one  coming  quietly  from  the  hall,  and  standing 
bareheaded,  offered  her  his  arm.  Th  servant  being 


350 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


thrust  aside,  she  had  no  choice  hut  to  touch  it ; and  she 
then  knew  whose  arm  it  was. 

How  is  jour  patient,  sir  she  said,  with  a curled 
lip. 

He  is  better,^’  returned  Carker.  He  is  doing  very 
well.  I have  left  him  for  the  night. 

She  bent  her  head,  and  was  passing  up  the  staircase, 
v/hen  he  followed  and  said,  speaking  at  the  bottom  : 

“Madam  ! Maj^  I beg  the  favour  of  a minute’s  au- 
dience ? ” 

She  stopped  and  turned  her  eyes  back.  “ It  is  an  un- 
seasonable time,  sir,  and  I am  fatigued.  Is  your  bush 
ness  urgent  ? ” 

“It  is  very  urgent,”  returned  Carker.  “ As  I am  so 
fortunate  as  to  have  met  you,  let  me  press  my  petition,” 

She  looked  down  for  a moment  at  his  glistening 
mouth  ; and  he  looked  up  at  her,  standing^above  him  in 
her  stately  dress,  and  thought,  again,  how  beautiful  she 
was. 

“ Where  is  Miss  Dombey  ? ” she  asked  the  servant, 
aloud. 

“ In  the  morning  room,  ma’am.” 

“ Show  the  way  there  !”  Turning  her  eyes  again  on 
the  attentive  gentleman  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  and 
informing  him  with  a slight  motion  of  her  head,  that  he 
was  at  liberty  to  follow,  she  passed  on. 

“ I beg  your  pardon  ! madam  ! Mrs.  Dombey  I ” cried 
the  soft  and  nimble  Carker,  at  her  side  in  a moment. 
“ May  I be  permitted  to  entreat  that  Miss  Dombey  is  not 
present  ? ” 

She  confronted  him,  with  a quick  look,  but  with  the 
same  self-possession  and  steadiness. 

“ I would  spare  Miss  Dombey,”  said  Carker,  in  a low 
voice,  “ the  knowledge  of  what  I have  to  say.  At  least, 
madam,  I would  leave  it  to  you  to  decide  w^hether 
she  shall  know  of  it  or  not.  I owe  that  to  you.  It  is 
my  bounden  duty  to  you.  After  our  former  interview, 
it  would  be  monstrous  in  me  if  I did  otherwise.” 

She  slowly  withdrew  her  eyes  from  his  face,  and  turn- 
ing to  the  servant,  said,  “some  other  room.”  He  led 
the  way  to  a drav/ing-room,  which  he  speedily  lighted 
up  and  then  left  them.  While  he  remained  not  a word 
was  spoken.  Edith  enthroned  herself  upon  a couch  by  the 
fire  ; and  Mr.  Carker,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  and  his 
eyes  bent  upon  the  carpet,  stood  before  her,  at  some  lit- 
tle distance. 

“Before  I hear  you  sir,”  said  Edith,  when  the  door  was 
closed,  “ I wish  you  to  hear  me.” 

“To  be  addressed  by  Mrs.  Dombey,”  he  returned, 
“even  in  accents  of  unmerited  reproach,  is  an  honour  I 
so  greatly  esteem,  that  although  I were  not  her  servant 


DOMBEY  AND  SQN. 


351 


in  all  things,!  should  defer  to  such  a wish, most  readily.^ 
If  you  are  charged  by  the  man  whom,  you  have  just 
now  left,  sir  ; ” Mr.  Carker  raised  his  eyes,  as  if  he  were 
going  to  counterfeit  surprise,  but  she  met  them,  and  stop- 
ped him,  if  such  were  his  intention  ; "‘with  any  mes- 
sage to  me,  do  not  attempt  to  deliver  it,  for  I will  not 
receive  it.  I need  scarcely  ask  you  if  you  are  come  on 
such  an  errand.  I have  expected  you  some  time/’ 

“It  is  my  misfortune,”  he  replied,  “to  be  here, 
wholly  against  my  will,  for  such  a purpose.  Allow  me 
to  say  that  I am  here  for  two  purposes.  That  is  one.” 

“That  one,  sir,”  she  returned,  “is  ended.  Or,  if 
you  retiirn  to  it — ” 

“ Can  Mrs.  Dombey  believe,”  said  Carker,  coming 
nearer,  “ that  I would  return  to  it  in  the  face  of  her 
prohibition  ? Is  it  possible  that  Mrs.  Dombey,  having 
no  regard  to  my  unfortunate  position,  is  so  determined 
to  consider  me  inseparable  from  my  instructor  as  to  do 
me  great  and  wilful  injustice?” 

“Sir,”  returned  Edith,  bending  her  dark  gaze  full 
upon  him,  and  speaking  with  a rising  passion  that  in- 
flated her  proud  nostril  and  her  swelling  neck,  and 
stirred  the  delicate  white  down  upon  a robe  she  wore, 
thrown  loosely  over  shoulders  that  could  bear  its  snowy 
neighbourhood.  “Why  do  you  present  yourself  to  me, 
as  you  have  done,  and  speak  to  me  of  love  and  duty  to 
my  husband,  and  pretend  to  think  that  I am  happily 
married,  and  that  I honour  him  ? How  dare  you  venture 
so  to  affront  me,  when  you  know — I do  not  know  better, 
sir  : I have  seen  it  in  your  every  glance,  and  heard  it  in 
your  every  vrord — that  in  place  of  affection  between  us 
there  is  aversion  and  contempt,  and  that  I despise  him 
hardly  less  than  I despise  myself  for  being  his  ! Injus^ 
tic©  I If  I had  done  justice  to  the  torment  you  have 
made  me  feel,  and  to  my  sense  of  the  insult  you  have 
put  upon  me,  I should  have  slain  you  ! ” 

She  had  asked  him  why  he  did  this  ? Had  she  not 
been  blinded  by  her  pride  and  wrath,  and  self-humilia- 
tion,— which  she  v/as,  fiercely  as  she  bent  her  gaze  upon 
him, — she  would  have  seen  the  answer  in  his  face.  To 
bring  her  to  this  declaration. 

She  saw  it  not,  and  cared  not  whether  it  was  there  or 
no.  She  saw  only  the  indignities  and  struggles  she  hai 
undergone,  and  had  to  undergo,  and  was  writhing  under 
them.  As  she  sat  looking  fixedly  at  them,  rather  than 
at  him,  she  plucked  the  feathers  from  a pinion  of  some 
rare  and  beautiful  bird,  which  hung  from  her  wrist  by  a 
golden  thread,  to  serve  her  as  a fan,  and  rained  them  on 
the  ground. 

He  did  not  shrink  beneath  her  gaze,  but  stood,  until 
such  outward  signs  of  her  anger  as  had  escaped  her  con=* 


352 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


trol  subsided,  v/itb  the  air  of  a man  who  had  his  suffi- 
cient reply  in  reserve  and  would  presently  deliver  it. 
And  he  then  spoke,  looking  straight  into  her  kindling 
eyes. 

Madam, he  said,  I know,  and  knew  before  to- 
day, that  I have  found  no  favour  with  you  ; and  I knew 
why.  Yes.  I knew  why.  You  have  spoken  so  openly 
to  me  ; I am  so  relieved  by  the  possession  of  your  confi- 
dence— ” 

‘‘  Confidence  she  repeated,  with  disdain. 

He  passed  it  over. 

— that  I will  make  no  pretence  of  concealment.  I 
did  see  from  the  first,  that  there  was  no  affection  on 
your  part,  for  Mr.  Dombey — how  could  it  possibly  exist 
between  such  different  subjects  ! And  I have  seen, 
since,  that  stronger  feelings  than  indifference  have  been 
engendered  in  your  breast — how  could  that  possibly  be 
otherwise,  either,  circumstanced  as  you  have  been.  But 
was  it  for  me  to  presume  to  avow  this  knowledge  to  you 
in  so  many  words  ? ” 

‘‘Was  it  for  you,  sir,”  she  replied,  “to  feign  that 
other  belief,  and  audaciously  to  thrust  it  on  me  day  by 
day?” 

“Madam,  it  was,”  he  eagerly  retorted.  “If  I had 
done  less,  if  I had  done  anything  but  that,  I should  not 
be  speaking  to  you  thus  ; and  I foresaw — who  could  bet- 
ter  foresee — for  who  has  had  greater  experience  of  Mr. 
Dombey  than  myself  ? — that  unless  your  character 
should  prove  to  be  as  yielding  and  obedient  as  that  of 
his  first  submissive  lady,  which  I did  not  believe — ” 

A haughty  smile  gave  him  reason  to  observe  that  he 
might  repeat  this. 

“ I say,  which  I did  not  believe, — the  time  was  likely 
to  come,  when  such  an  understanding  as  we  have  now 
arrived  at,  would  be  serviceable.  ” 

‘ ‘ Serviceable  to  whom,  sir  ? ” she  demanded  scorn- 
full  y. 

“ To  you.  I will  not  add  to  myself,  as  warning  me  to 
refrain  even  from  that  limited  commendation  of  Mr. 
Dombey,  in  which  I can  honestly  indulge,  in  order  that 
I may  not  have  the  misfortune  of  saying  anything  dis- 
tasteful to  one  whose  aversion  and  contempt,”  with 
great  expression,  “ are  so  keen.” 

“ It  is  honest  in  you,  sir,”  said  Edith,  “ to  confess  to 
your  ‘ limited  commendation,'  and  to  speak  in  that  tone 
of  .disparagement,  even  of  him  : being  his  chief  coun- 
sellor and  flatterer  ! ” 

“Counsellor, — yes,”  said  Carker.  “Flatterer — no. 
A little  reservation  I fear  I must  confess  to.  But  our  in 
terest  and  convenience  commonly  oblige  many  of  us  to 
make  professions  that  we  cannot  feel.  We  have  part- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


353 


nersliips  of  interest  and  convenience,  friendships  of  in- 
terest and  convenience,  dealings  of  interest  and  con- 
venience, marriages  of  interest  and  convenience,  every 
day.^^ 

She  hit  her  blood-red  lip  ; but  without  wavering  in 
the  dark,  stern  watch  she  kept  upon  him. 

Madam, said  Mr.  Carker,  sitting  down  in  a chair 
that  was  near  her, with  an  air  of  the  most  profound  and 
most  considerate  respect,  ‘‘why  should  I hesitate  now, 
being  altogether  devoted  to  your  service,  to  speak  plainly  1 
It  was  natural  that  a lady  endowed  as  you  are,  should 
think  it  feasible  to  change  her  husband's  character  in 
some  respects,  and  mould  him  to  a better  form." 

“ It  was  not  natural  to  me,  sir,"  she  rejoined.  “ I had 
never  any  expectation  or  intention  of  that  kindi^" 

The  proud  undaunted  face  showed  him  it  was  resolute 
to  wear  no  mask  he  offered,  but  was  set  upon  a reckless 
disclosure  of  itself,  indifferent  to  any  aspect  in  which  it 
might  present  itself  to  such  as  he. 

“At  least  it  was  natural,"  he  resumed,  “that  you 
should  deem  it  quite  possible  to  live  with  Mr.  Dombey  as 
his  wife,  at  once  without  submitting  to  him,  and  without 
coming  into  such  violent  collision  with  him.  But  madam, 
you  did  not  know  Mr.  Dombey  (as  you  have  since  ascer- 
tained), when  you  thought  that.  You  did  not  know  how 
exacting  and  how  proud  he  is,  or  how  he  is,  if  I may  saj 
so,  the  slave  of  his  own  greatness,^nd  goes  yoked  to  his 
own  triumphal  car  like  a beast  of  burden,  with  no  idea 
on  earth  but  that  it  is  behind  him  and  is  to  be  drawn  on, 
over  everything  and  through  everything." 

His  teeth  gleamed  through  his  malicious  relish  of  this 
conceit,  as  he  went  on  talking  : 

“Mr.  Dombey  is  really  capable  of  no  more  true  con- 
sideration for  you,  madam,  than  for  me.  The  comparison 
is  an  extreme  one  ; I intend  it  to  be  so  ; but  quite  j ust. 
Mr.  Dombey,  in  the  plenitude  of  his  power,  asked  me — I 
had  it  from  his  own  lips  yesterday  morning — to  be  his  go- 
between  to  you,  because  he  knows  I am  not  agreeable  to 
you,  and  because  he  intends  that  I shall  be  a punishment 
for  your  contumacy  ; and  besides  that,  because  he  really 
does  consider,  that  I,  his  paid  servant,  am  an  ambassador 
whom  it  is  derogatory  to  the  dignity — -not  of  the  lady  to 
whom  I have  the  happiness  of  speaking  ; she  has  no  ex 
istence  in  his  mind — but  of  his  wife,  a part  of  himself, 
to  receive.  You  may  imagine  how  regardless  of  me, 
how  obtuse  to  the  possibility  of  my  having  any  indi 
vidual  sentiment  or  opinion  he  is,  when  he  tells  me, 
openly,  that  I am!  so  employed.  You  know  how  perfectly 
indifferent  to  your  feelings  he  is,  when  he  threatens  you 
with  such  a messenger.  As  you,  of  course,  have  not 
forgotten  that  he  did." 


354 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Bhe  watched  him  still  attentively.  But  he  watched 
her  too  ; and  he  saw  that  this  indication  of  a knowledge 
m his  part,  of  something  that  had  passed  between  her- 
self and  her  husband,  rankled  and  smarted  in  her 
haughty  breast,  like  a poisoned  arrow. 

I do  not  recall  all  this  to  widen  the  breach  between 
yourself  and  Mr.  Dombey,  madam — Heaven  forbid  ! 
what  would  it  profit  me — but  as  an  example  of  the  hope- 
lessness of  impressing  Mr.  Dombey  with  a sense  that 
anybody  is  to  be  considered  when  he  is  in  question.  We 
v/ho  are  about  him,  have,  in  our  various  positions,  done 
our  part,  I dare  say,  to  confirm  him  in  his  way  of  think- 
ing ; but  if  we  had  not  done  so,  others  would— or  they 
would  not  have  been  about  him  ; and  it  has  always  been, 
from  the  beginning,  the  very  staple  of  his  life.  Mr. 
Dombey  has  had  to  deal,  in  short,  with  none  but  sub- 
missive and  dependent  persons,  who  have  bowed  the 
knee,  and  bent  the  neck,  before  him.  He  has  never 
known  what  it  is  to  have  angry  pride  and  strong  resent- 
ment opposed  to  him.’’ 

“But  he  will  know  it  now!”  she  seemed  to  say; 
though  her  lips  did  not  part,  nor  her  eyes  falter.  He 
saw  the  soft  down  tremble  once  again,  and  he  saw  her 
lay  the  plumage  of  the  beautiful  bird  against  her  bosom 
for  a moment  ; and  he  unfolded  one  more  ring  of  the 
coil  into  which  he  had  gathered  himself. 

“Mr.  Dombey,  thougha  most honourablegentleman,” 
he  said,  “is  so  prone  to  pervert  even  facts  to  his  own 
view,  when  he  is  at  all  opposed,  in  consequence  of  the 
warp  in  his  mind,  that  he — can  I give  a better  instance 
than  this  ! — he  sincerely  believes  (you  will  excuse  the 
folly  of  v/hat  I am  about  to  say  ; it  not  being  mine)  that 
his  severe  expression  of  opinion  to  his  present  wife,  on  a 
certain  special  occasion  she  may  remember,  before  the 
lamented  death  of  Mrs.  Skewton,  produced  a withering 
effect,  and  for  the  moment  quite  subdued  her  I ” 

Edith  laughed.  How  harshly  and  unmusically  need 
not  be  described.  It  is  enough  that  he  was  glad  to  hear 
her. 

“Madam,”  he  resumed,  “I  have  done  with  this. 
Your  own  opinions  are  so  strong,  and,  I am  persuaded, 
so  unalterable,”  he  repeated  those  words  slowly  and 
with  great  emphasis,  “that  I am  almost  afraid  to  incur 
your  displeasure  anew,  when  I say  that  in  spite  of  these 
defects  and  my  full  knowledge  of  them,  I have  become 
habituated  to  Mr.  Dombey,  and  esteem  him.  But,  when 
I say  so,  it  is  not,  believe  me,  for  the  mere  sake  of 
vaunting  a feeling  that  is  so  utterly  at  variance  with 
your  own,  and  for  which  you  can  have  no  sympathy” — 
oh  how  distinct  and  plain,  and  emphasized  this  was  ! 

but  to  give  you  an  assurance  of  the  zeal  with  which. 


DOM  BEY  AND  SON. 


355 


in  this  unhappy  matter,  I am  yours,  and- the  indignation 
with  which  I regard  the  part  I am  required  to  fill  ! 

She  sat  as  if  she  were  afraid  to  take  her  eyes  from  his 
face. 

And  now  to  unwind  the  last  ring  of  the  coil ! 

‘‘It  is  growing  late,'’  said  Carker,  after  a j>ause,  “and 
you  are,  as  you  said,  fatigued..  But  the  second  object  of 
this  interview,  I must  not  forget.  I must  recommend 
you,  I must  entreat  you  in  the  most  earnest  manner,  for 
sufficient  reasons  that  I have,  to  be  cautious  in  your  de- 
monstrations of  regard  for  Miss  Dombey.” 

“ Cautious  ! What  do  you  mean 

“To  be  careful  how  you  exhibit  too  much  affection 
for  that  young  lady." 

“ Too  much  affection,  sir  ! " said  Edith,  knitting  her 
broad  brow  and  rising.  “ Who  judges  my  affection,  or 
measures  it  out.  You  ? " 

“ It  is  not  I who  do  so."  He  was,  or  feigned  to  be, 
perplexed. 

“ Who  then? " 

“ Can  you  not  guess  who  then  ? " 

“I  do  not  choose  to  guess,"  she  answered. 

“Madam,"  he  said  after  a little  hesitation  ; meantime 
they  had  been,  and  still  were,  regarding  each  other  as 
before  ; “I  am  in  a difficulty  here.  You  have  told  me 
you  will  receive  no  message,  and  you  have  forbidden  me 
to  return  to  that  subject : but  the  two  subjects  are  so 
closely  entwined,  I find,  that  unless  you  will  accept  this 
vague  caution  from  one  who  has  now  the  honour  to  pos- 
sess your  confidence,  though  the  way  to  it  has  been 
through  your  displeasure,  I must  violate  the  injunction 
you  have  laid  upon  me." 

“You  know  that  you  are  free  to  do  so,  sir,"  said  Edith.  - 
“ Do  it." 

So  pale,  so  trembling,  so  impassioned  ! He  had  not 
miscalculated  the  effect,  then  ! 

“ His  instructions  were,"  he  said,  in  alow  voice,  “ that 
I should  inform  you  that  your  demeanour  towards  Miss 
Dombey  is  not  agreeable  to  him.  That  it  suggests  com- 
parisons to  him  which  are  not  favourable  to  himself. 
That  he  desires  it  may  be  wholly  changed  ; and  that  if 
you  are  in  earnest,  he  is  confident  it  will  be  ; for  your 
continued  show  of  affection  will  not  benefit  its  object." 

“ That  is  a threat,"  she  said. 

“ That  is  a threat,"  he  answered  in  his  voiceless  man- 
ner of  assent  : adding  aloud,  “ but  not  directed  against 
you. " 

Proud,  erect,  and  dignified,  as  she  stood  confronting 
him  ; and  looking  him  as  she  did,  with  her  full  bright 
Basiling  eye  ; and  smiling  as  she  was,  with  scorn  and 
bitterness  ; she  sunk  as  if  the  ground  had  dropped  be- 


356 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


neath  her,  and  in  an  instant  would  have  fallen  on  the 
floor,  but  that  he  caught  her  in  his  arms.  As  instanta- 
neously she  threw  him  off,  the  moment  that  he  touched 
her,  and,  drawing  back,  confronted  him  again,  immova- 
ble, with  her  hand  stretched  out. 

Please  to  leave  me.  Say  no  more  to-night.’^ 

“ I feel  the  urgency  of  this,”  said  Mr.  Carker,  ^‘because 
it  is  impossible  to  say  what  unforeseen  consequences 
might  arise,  or  how  soon,  from  your  being  unacquainted 
with  his  state  of  mind.  I understand  Miss  Dombey  is 
concerned,  now,  at  the  dismissal  of  her  old  servant, 
which  is  likely  to  have  been  a minor  consequence  in  it- 
self. You  don’t  blame  me  for  requesting  that  Miss  Dom- 
bey might  not  be  present.  May  I hope  so  ? ” 

I do  not.  Please  leave  me,  sir.” 

‘‘I  knew  that  your  regard  for  that  young  lady,  which 
is  very  sincere  and  strong,  I am  well  persuaded,  would 
render  it  a great  unhappiness  to  you,  ever  to  be  a prey 
to  the  reflection  that  you  had  injured  her  position  and 
ruined  her  future  hopes,”  said  Carker,  hurriedly,  but 
eagerly. 

No  more  to-night.  Leave  me,  if  you  please.” 

I shall  be  here  constantly  in  my  attendance  upon  him, 
and  in  the  transaction  of  business  matters.  You  will  al- 
low me  to  see  you  again,  and  to  consult  what  should  be 
done,  and  learn  your  v/ishes  ?” 

She  motioned  him  towards  the  door. 

“I  cannot  even  decide  whether  to  tell  him  I have  spoken 
to  you  yet ; or  to  lead  him  to  suppose  that  I have  deferred 
doing  so,  for  want  of  opportunity,  or  for  any  other 
reason.  It  will  be  necessary  that  you  should  enable  m© 
to  consult  with  you  very  soon.” 

“ At  any  time  but  now,”  she  answered. 

‘'You  will  understand,  when  I wish  to  see  you,  that 
Miss  Dombey  is  not  to  be  present;  and  that  I seek  an  inter- 
view as  one  who  has  the  happiness  to  possess  your  confi- 
dence, and  who  comes  to  render  you  every  assistance  in 
his  power,  and,  perhaps,  on  many  occasions,  toward  off 
evil  from  her  ? ” 

Looking  at  him  still  with  the  same  apparent  dread  of 
releasing  him  for  a moment  from  the  influence  of  her 
steady  gaze,  whatever  that  might  be,  she  answered, 
“ Yes  ! ” and  once  more  bade  him  go. 

He  bowed,  as  if  in  compliance  ; but  turning  back, 
when  he  had  nearly  reached  the  door,  said  : 

“I  am  forgiven,  and  have  explained  my  fault.  May 
I — for  Miss  Dombey's  sake,  and  for  my  own — take  your 
hand  before  I go  ? ” 

She  gave  him  the  gloved  hand  she  had  maimed  last 
night.  He  took  it  in  one  of  his  and  kissed  it,  and  with- 
drew, And  w^hen  he  had  closed  the  door,  he  waved  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


357 


hand  with  which  he  had  taken  hers,  and  thrust  it  in  his 
breast. 


CHAPTER  XLYI. 

Recognizant  and  Reflective. 

Among  sundry  minor  alterations  in  Mr.  Carker’s  life 
and  habits  that  began  to  take  place  at  this  time,  none 
was  more  remarkable  than  the  extraordinary'  diligence 
with  which  he  applied  himself  to  business,  and  the 
closeness  with  which  he  investigated  every  detail  that 
the  atfairs  of  the  House  laid  open  to  him.  Always  ac- 
tive and  penetrating  in  such  matters,  his  lynx-eyed  vig- 
ilance now  increased  twenty  fold.  Not  only  did  his 
weary  watch  keep  pace  with  every  present  point  that 
every  day  presented  to  him  in  some  new  form,  but  in 
the  midst  of  these  engrossing  occupations  he  found  leis- 
ure— that  is,  he  made  it — to  review  the  past  transactions 
of  the  Firm,  and  his  share  in  them,  during  a long  series 
of  years.  Frequently  when  the  clerks  were  all  gone,  the 
oflSces  dark  and  empty,  and  all  similar  places  of  business 
shut  up,  Mr.  Carker,  with  the  whole  anatomy  of  the  iron 
room  laid  bare  before  him,  would  explore  the  mysteries 
of  books  and  papers,  with  the  patient  progress  of  a man 
who  was  dissecting  the  minutest  nerves  and  fibres  of  his 
subject.  Perch,  the  messenger,  who  usually  remained 
on  these  occasions,  to  entertain  himself  with  the  perusal 
of  the  Price  Current  by  the  light  of  one  candle,  or  to 
doze  over  the  fire  in  the  outer  office,  at  the  imminent 
risk  every  moment  of  diving  head  foremost  into  the  coal 
box,  couid  not  withhold  the  tribute  of  his  admiration 
from  this  zealous  conduct.,  although  it  much  contracted 
his  domestic  enjoyments  ; and  again,  and  again,  expati- 
ated to  Mrs.  Perch  (now  nursing  twins)  on  the  industry 
and  acuteness  of  their  managing  gentleman  in  the  City. 

The  same  increased  and  sharp  attention  that  Mr. 
Carker  bestowed  on  the  business  of  the  House,  he  applied 
to  his  own  personal  affairs.  Though  not  a partner  in 
the  concern— a distinction  hitherto  reserved  solely  to 
inheritors  of  the  great  name  of  Dombey — he  was  in  the 
receipt  of  some  per  centage  on  its  dealings  ; and,  par- 
ticipating in  all  its  facilities  for  the  employment  of 
money  to  advantage,  was  considered,  by  the  minnows 
among  the  tritons  of  the  East,  a rich  man.  It  began  to 
be  said,  among  these  shrewd  observers,  that  Jem  Carker, 
of  Dombey’s,  was  looking  about  him  to  see  what  he  was 
worth  ; and  that  he  was  calling  in  his  money  at  a good 
time,  like  the  long-headed  fellow  he  was  ; and  bets  were 


358  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

even  offered  on  tlie  Stock-Exchange  that  Jem  was  going 
to  marry  a rich  widow. 

Yet  these  cares  did  not  in  the  least  interfere  v/ith  Mr. 
Carker’s  watching  of  his  chief,  or  with  his  cleanness, 
neatness,  sleekness,  or  any  cat-like  quality  he  possessed 
It  was  not  so  much  that  there  was  a change  in  him,  in 
reference  to  any  of  his  habits,  as  that  the  whole  man 
was  intensified.  Everything  that  had  been  observable 
in  him  before,  was  observable  now,  but  with  a greater 
amount  of  concentration.  He  did  each  single  thing,  as 
if  he  did  nothing  else — a pretty  certain  indication  in  a 
man  of  that  range  of  ability  and  purpose,  that  he  is  doing 
something  which  sharpens  and  keeps  alive  his  keenest 
powers. 

The  only  decided  alteration  in  him,  was,  that  as  he 
rode  to  and  fro  along  the  streets,  he  would  fall  into  deep 
fits  of  musing,  like  that  in  which  he  had  come  away 
from  Mr.  Dombey’s  house,  on  the  morning  of  that  gen- 
tleman’s disaster.  At  such  times,  he  would  keep  clear 
of  the  obstacles  in  his  way,  mechanically  ; and  would 
appear  to  see  and  hear  nothing  until  arrival  at  his  des- 
tination, or  some  sudden  chance  or  effort  roused  him. 

Walking  his  white-legged  horse,  thus,  to  the  count- 
ing-house of  Dombey  and  Son  one  day,  he  was  as  uncon- 
scious of  the  observation  of  two  pairs  of  women’s  eyes, 
as  of  the  fascinated  orbs  of  Rob  the  Grinder,  who,  in 
waiting  a street’s  length  from  the  appointed  place,  as  a 
demonstration  of  punctuality,  vainly  touched  and  re- 
touched his  hat  to  attract  attention,  and  trotted  along  on 
foot,  by  his  master’s  side,  prepared  to  hold  his  stirrup 
when  he  should  alight. 

See  where  he  goes  !”  cried  one  of  these  two  women, 
an  old  creature,  who  stretched  out  her  shrivelled  arm 
to  point  him  out  to  her  companion,  a young  woman,  who 
stood  close  beside  her,  withdrawn  like  herself  into  a 
gateway. 

Mrs.  Brown’s  daughter  looked  out,  at  this  bidding  on 
the  part  of  Mrs.  Brown  ; and  there  were  wrath  and  ven- 
geance in  her  face. 

“ I never  thought  to  look  at  him  again,”  she  said,  in  a 
lov/  voice  ; but  it’s  well  I should,  perhaps.  I see.  I 
see  ! ” 

Not  changed  ! ” said  the  old  woman,  with  a look  of 
eager  malice. 

He  changed!”  returned  the  other.  '‘What  for? 
What  has  he  suffered  ? There  is  change  enough  for 
twenty  in  me.  Isn’t  that  enough  ? ” 

“See  where  he  goes!”  muttered  the  old  woman, 
watching  her  daughter  with  her  red  eyes ; “so  easy  and 
so  trim,  a’  horse-back,  while  we  are  in  the  mud — ” 

“ And  of  it,”  said  her  daughter  impatiently.  “We 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


359 


^re  mud  underneatli  liis  horse's  feet.  What  should  we 
be  ? 

In  the  intentness  with  which  she  looked  after  him 
again,  she  made  a hasty  gesture  with  her  hand  when  the 
old  woman  began  to  reply,  as  if  her  view  could  be  ob- 
structed by  mere  sound.  Her  nqiother  watching  her,  and 
not  him,  remained  silent ; until  her  kindling  glance  sub- 
sided, and  she  drew  a long  breath,  as  if  in  the  relief  of 
his  being  gone. 

‘‘Deary!’’  said  the  old  woman  then.  “Alice! 
Handsome  gal  I Ally  ! ” She  gently  shook  her  sleeve 
to  arouse  her  attention.  “ Will  you  let  him  go  like  that, 
when  you  can  wring  money  from  him.  Why,  it’s  a 
wickedness,  my  daughter.” 

“ Haven’t  I told  you,  that  I will  not  have  money  from 
him  ? ” she  returned.  “ And  don’t  you  yet  believe  me  ? 
Did  I take  his  sister’s  money  ? Would  I touch  a penny, 
if  I knew  it,  that  had  gone  through  his  white  hands — 
unless,  it  was,  indeed,  that  I could  poison  it,  and  send  it 
back  to  him  ? Peace,  mother,  and  come  away.” 

“ And  him  so  rich  ? ” murmured  the  old  woman. 

And  us  so  poor  ! ” 

“ Poor  in  not  being  able  to  pay  him  any  of  the  harm 
we  owe  him,”  returned  her  daughter.  “Let  him  give 
me  that  sort  of  riches,  and  I’ll  take  them  from  him  and 
use  them.  Come  away.  It’s  no  good  looking  at  his 
horse.  Come  away,  mother  ! ” 

But  the  old  woman,  for  whom  the  spectacle  of  Rob 
the  Grinder  returning  down  the  street,  leading  the  rider- 
less horse,  appeared  to  have  some  extraneous  interest 
that  it  did  not  possess  in  itself,  surveyed  that  young  man 
with  the  utmost  earnestness  ; and  seeming  to  have  what- 
ever doubts  she  entertained,  resolved  as  he  drew  nearer, 
glanced  at  her  daughter  with  brightened  eyes  and  with 
her  finger  on  her  lip,  and  emerging  from  the  gateway  at 
the  moment  of  his  passing, .touched  him  on  the  shoulder* 

“ Why,  where’s  my  sprightly  Rob  been,  all  this  time  !** 
she  said,  as  he  turned  round. 

The  sprightly  Rob,  whose  sprightliness  was  very  much 
diminished  by  the  salutation,  looked  exceedingly  dis- 
mayed,  and  said,  with  the  water  rising  in  his  eyes  : 

“Oh  why  can’t  you  leave  a poor  cove  alone.  Misses 
Brown,  when  he’s  getting  an  honest  livelihood  and  con- 
ducting himself  respectable  ? What  do  you  come  and  de- 
prive a cove  of  his  character  for,  by  talking  to  him  in 
the  streets,  when  he’s  taking  his  master’s  horse  to  a hon- 
est stable — a horse  you’d  go  and  sell  for  cats’  and  dogs’ 
meat  if  you  had  your  way  I Why,  I thought,”  said  th© 
Grinder,  producing  his  concluding  remark  as  if  it  were 
the  climax  of  all  his  injuries,  “ that  you  was  dead  long 
ago  I ” 


360 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


‘‘  This  IS  the  way/*  cried  the  old  woman,  appealing’  to 
her  daughter,  that  he  talks  to  me,  who  knew  him 
weeks  and  months  together,  my  deary,  and  have  stood 
his  friend  many  and  many  a time  among  the  pigeon-fan- 
cying tramps  and  bird-catchers.** 

‘‘  Let  the  birds  be,  will  you  Misses  Brown  ? **  retorted 
Rob,  in  a tone  of  the  acutest  anguish.  I think  a cove 
had  better  have  to  do  with  lions  than  them  little  cree- 
turs,  for  they*re  always  flying  back  in  your  face  when 
you  least  expect  it.  Well,  how  d*ye  do  and  what  do  you 
want ! **  These  polite  inquiries  the  Grrinder  uttered,  as 
it  were  under  protest,  and  with  great  exasperation  and 
vindictiveness. 

‘‘  Hark  how  he  speaks  to  an  old  friend,  my  deary  ! ** 
said  Mrs.  Brown,  again  appealing  to  her  daughter. 
“ But  there *s  some  of  his  old  friends  not  so  patient  as 
me.  If  I was  to  tell  some  that  he  knows,  and  has  sported 
and  cheated  with,  where  to  find  him — ** 

Will  you  hold  your  tongue.  Misses  Brown  ?**  inter- 
rupted the  miserable  Grinder,  glancing  quickly  round, 
as  though  he  expected  to  see  his  master*s  teeth  shining 
at  his  elbow.  ‘ ‘ What  do  you  take  a pleasure  in  ruin- 
ing a cove  for  ? At  your  time  of  life  too  ! when  you 
ought  to  be  thinking  of  a variety  of  things  1 ** 

What  a gallant  horse  ! **  said  the  old  woman,  pat. 
ting  the  animars  neck. 

Let  him  alone,  will  you  Misses  Brown  ? **  cried  Rob, 
pushing  away  her  hand.  You’re  enough  to  drive  a 
penitent  cove  mad  ! ** 

“ Why,  what  hurt  do  I do  him,  child  ? ’*  returned  the 
old  woman. 

‘‘  Hurt  ? **  said  Rob.  He*s  got  a master  that  would 
find  it  out  if  he  was  touched  with  a straw.**  x\ndhe  blew 
upon  jibe  place  where  the  old  w^omaifls  hand  had  rested 
for  a moment,  and  smoothed  it  gently  with  his  finger,  as 
if  he  seriously  believed  wdiat  he  said. 

The  old  woman  looking  back  to  mumble  and  mouth  at 
her  daughter,  who  followed,  kept  close  to  Rob’s  heels  as 
he  walked  on  with  the  bridle  in  his  hand  ; and  pursued 
the  conversation. 

‘‘  A good  place,  Rob,  eh  ? **  said  she.  You*re  in  luck, 
my  child.** 

‘‘  Oh  don*t  talk  about  luck.  Misses  Brown,*’  returned 
the  wretched  Grinder,  facing  round  and  stopping.  If 
you*d  never  come,  or  if  you’d  go  aw'ay,  then  indeed  a 
cove  might  be  considered  tolerable  lucky.  Can’t  you  go 
along,  Misses  Brown,  and  not  toiler  me  ? **  blubbered 
Rob,  with  sudden  defiance.  “ If  the  young  woman’s  a 
friend  of  yours,  why  don’t  she  take  you  away,  instead  of 
letting  you  make  yourself  so  disgraceful  ! ” 

‘‘  What  ! ” croaked  the  old  w'oman,  putting  her  fae© 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


36' 


close  to  liis,  with  a malevolent  grin  npon  it  that  puck- 
ered up  the  loose  skin  down  in  her  very  throat.  Do 
you  deny  your  old  chum  ! Have- you  lurked  to  my  house 
fifty  times,  and  slept-  sound  in  a corner  when  you  had  no 
other  bed  but  the  paving-stones,  and  do  you  talk  to  me 
like  this  ! Have  I bought  and  sold  with  you,  and  helped 
you  in  my  way  of  business,  schoolboy,  sneak,  and  y^diat 
not,  and  do  you  tell  me  to  go  along?  Could  I raise  a 
crowd  of  old  company  about  you  to-morrow  morning, 
that  would  follow  you  to  ruin  like  copies  of  your  ovm 
shadow,  and  do  you  turn  on  me  with  your  bold  looks  I 
ril  go  ! Come  Alice/’ 

“ Stop,  Misses  Brown  !”  cried  the  distracted  Grinder, 

What  are  you  doing  of?  Don’t  put  yourself  in  a pas- 
sion ! Don’t  let  her  go,  if  you  please.  I haven’t  meant 
any  oSence.  I said  ‘how  d’ye  do,’  at  first,  didn’t  I ? But 
vou  wouldn’t  answer.  How  do  you  do  ? Besides,  ” said 
kob,  piteously,  “ look  here  ! How  can  a cove  stand  talk- 
ing in  the  street  with  his  master’s  prad  a wanting  to  be 
took  to  be  rubbed  down,  and  his  master  up  to  every  indi- 
vidgle  thing  that  happens?” 

The  old  woman  made  a show  of  being  partially  ap- 
peased, but  shook  her  head,  and  mouthed  and  muttered 
still. 

“ Come  along  to  the  stables,  and  have  a glass  of  some- 
thing that’s  good  for  you.  Misses  Brov/n,  can’t  you  ? ” 
said  Rob,  instead  of  going  on,  like  that,  which  is  no  good 
to  you,  nor  anybody  else?  Come  along  with  her,  will 
you  be  so  kind  ? ” said  Rob.  “ I’m  sure  I’m  delighted  to 
see  her,  if  it  v*^asn’t  for  the  horse  ! ” 

With  this  apology.  Bob  turned  away,  a rueful  picture 
of  despair,  and  walked  his  charge  down  a bye-street. 
The  old  woman,  mouthing  at  her  daughter,  followed 
close  upon  him.  The  daughter  followed. 

Turning  into  a silent  little  square  or  court  yard  that 
had  a great  church  tower  rising  above  it,  and  a packer’s 
warehouse,  and  a bottle-maker’s  warehouse,  for  its  places 
of  business,  Rob  the  Grinder  delivered  the  white-legged 
horse  to  the  hostler  of  a quaint  stable  at  the  corner  ; and 
inviting  Mrs.  Brown  and  her  daughter  to  seat  themselves 
upon  a stone  bench  at  the  gate  of  that  establishment, 
soon  reappeared  from  a neighbouring  public  house  with 
a pewter  measure  and  a glass. 

“ Here’s  master — Mr.  Carker,  child  ! ” said  the  old  wo- 
man, slowly,  as  her  sentiment  before  drinking.  “ Lord 
bless  him  ! ” 

“ Why,  I didn’t  tell  you  who  he  was,”  observed  Rob, 
with  staring  eyes. 

“We  know  him  by  sight,”  said  Mrs.  Brown,  whose 
working  mouth  and  nodding  head,  stopped  for  the  mo- 
ment, in  the  fixedness  of  her  attention.  “We  saw  him 
VoL.  12 


862 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


pass  this  morning,  afore  lie  got  oif  his  horse  ; when  you 
were  ready  to  take  it.’' 

^ ‘ Ay,  ay  ? ” returned  Rob,  appearing  to  wish  that  his 
readiness  had  carried  him  to  any  other  place. — ^Yhat’s 
the  matter  with  her  ? Won’t  she  drink  ! ” 

This  inquiry  had  reference  to  Alice,’ who,  folded  in  her 
cloak,  sat  a little  apart  profoundly  inattentive  to  his 
®ffer  of  the  replenished  glass. 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head.  Don’t  mind  her,” 
she  said  ; ‘‘  She’s  a strange  creetur,  if  you  know’d  her, 
Rob.  But  Mr.  Carker — ” 

“Hush!”  said  Rob,  glancing  cautiously  up  at  the 
packer’s,  and  at  the  bottle  maker’s,  as  if,  from  any  one 
of  the  tiers  of  the  warehouses,  Mr.  Carker  might  be  look- 
ing down.  “Softly.” 

“ Why,  he  ain’t  here  ! ” cried  Mrs.  Brown. 

“ I don’t  know  that,”  muttered  Rob,  whose  glance  even 
wandered  to  the  church  tower,  as  if  he  might  be  there, 
with  a supernatural  power  of  hearing. 

“ Good  master  ? ” inquired  Mrs.  Brown. 

Rob  nodded  his  head  ; and  added  in  a low  voice, 
“ precious  sharp.  ” 

“ Lives  out  of  town,  don’t  he,  lovey  ? ” said  the  old  wo- 
man. 

“ When  he’s  at  home,”  returned  Rob  ; “ but  we  don’t 
live  at  home  just  now.” 

“ Where  then  ? ” asked  the  old  woman. 

“ Lodgings  ; up  near  Mr.  Dombey’s,”  returned  Rob. 

The  younger  woman  fixed  her  eyes  so  searchingly  up- 
on him,  and  so  suddenly,  that  Rob  was  quite  confounded, 
and  offered  the  glass  again,  but  with  no  more  effect  upon 
her  than  before. 

“Mr.  Dombey — you  and  I used  to  talk  about  him, 
sometimes,  you  know,”  said  Rob  to  Mrs.  Brown.  “ Yoii 
used  to  get  me  to  talk  about  him.  ” 

The  old  woman  nodded. 

“Well,  Mr.  Dombey,  he’s  had  a fall  from  his  horse,” 
said  Rob,  unwillingly;  “and  my  master  has  to  be  up 
there,  more  than  usual,  either  with  him,  or  Mrs.  Dombey, 
or  some  of  ’em  ; and  so  we’ve  come  to  town.” 

“ Are  they  good  friends,  lovey  ? ” asked  the  old  woman. 

“ Who  ?”  retorted  Rob. 

“ He  and  she  ? ” 

“ What,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dombey,”  said  Rob  “ How 
should  / know  !” 

“ Not  them — Master  and  Mrs.  Dombey,  chick,  ’ replied 
J;he  old  woman,  coaxingly. 

“ I don’t  know,”  said  Rob,  looking  round  him  again. 
“ I suppose  so.  How  curious  you  are.  Misses  Brown  ! 
Least  said  soonest  mended.” 

“Why  there’s  no  harm  in  it  1 ” exclaimed  the  old  worn- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


863 


an,  with  a laugh  and  a clap  of  her  hands.  Sprightly 
Roh  has  grown  tame  since  he  has  been  well  off  ! There’s 
no  harm  in  it.” 

‘‘No,  there’s  no  harm  in  it  I know,”  returned  Rob, 
with  the  same  distrustful  glance  at  the  packer’s  and  the 
bottle-maker’s,  and  the  church  ; “ but  blabbing,  if  it’s 
only  about  the  number  of  buttons  on  my  master’s  coat 
won’t  do.  I tell  you  it  won’t  do  with  him.  A cove  had 
better  drown  himself.  He  says  so.  I shouldn’t  have  so 
much  as  told  you  what  his  name  was,  if  you  hadn’t  known 
it.  Talk  about  somebody  else.” 

As  Rob  took  another  cautious  survey  of  the  yard,  the 
bid  woman  made  a secret  motion  to  her  daughter.  It 
was  momentary,  but  the  daughter,  with  a slight  look  of 
intelligence,  withdrew  her  eyes  from  the  boy’s  face,  and 
sat  folded  in  her  cloak  as  before. 

“ Rob,  lovey  ?”  said  the  old  woman,  beckoning  him  to 
the  other  end  of  the  bench.  “ You  were  always  a pet 
and  favourite  of  mine.  Now,  weren’t  you  ? Don’t  you 
know  you  were  ? ” 

“Yes,  Misses  Brown,”  replied  the  Grinder,  with  a very 
bad  grace. 

“ And  you  could  leave  me  ! ” said  the  old  woman,  fling- 
ing her  arms  about  his  neck.  “ You  could  go  away,  and 
grow  almost  out  of  our  knowledge,  and  never  come  to  tell 
your  poor  old  friend  how  fortunate  you  were,  proud  lad  ! 
Oho,  oho  ! ” 

“ Oh  here’s  a dreadful  go  for  a cove  that’s  got  a master 
wide  awake  in  the  neighbourhood  !”  exclaimed  the 
wretched  Grinder.  “ To  be  howled  over  like  this  here  ! ” 
Won’t  you  come  and  see  me,  Robby?”  cried  Mrs. 
Brown.  “ Oho,  won’t  you  ever  come  and  see  me  ? ” 

“ Yes,  I tell  you  ! Yes,  I will !”  returned  the  Grinder. 

“ That’s  my  own  Rob  ! That’s  my  lovey  ! ” said  Mrs. 
Brov»^n,  drying  the  tears  upon  her  shrivelled  face,  and 
giving  him  a tender  squeeze.  “ At  the  old  place  Rob?” 

“ Yes,”  replied  the  Grinder. 

“Soon,  Robby,  dear? ’’cried  Mrs.  Brown;  “and  of^ 
ten?” 

“Yes.  Yes.  Yes,”  replied  Rob.  “ I will  indeed,  up- 
on my  soul  and  body.” 

“And  then,”  said  Mrs.  Brown,  with  her  arms  uplifted 
towards  the  sky,  and  her  head  thrown  back  and  shaking, 
“ if  he’s  true  to  his  word.  I’ll  never  come  a-near  him, 
though  I know  where  he  is,  and  never  breathe  a syllable 
about  him  ! Never  ! ” 

This  ejaculation  seemed  a drop  of  comfort  to  the  mis- 
erable Grinder,  who  shook  Mrs.  Brovv^n  by  the  hand  upon 
it,  and  implored  her  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  to  leave  a 
cove,  and  not  destroy  his  prospects.  Mrs.  Brown,  with 
another  fond  embrace  assented  ; but  in  the  act  of  follow- 


364 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


lug  her  daughter,  turned  back,  with  her  finger  stealthily 
raised,  and  asked  in  a hoarse  whisper  for  some  money. 

shilling, 'dear  !”  she  said,  with  her  eager>  avari- 
cious face,  ‘^or  sixpence!  For  old  acquaintance  sake, 
Fm  so  poor.  And  my  handsome  gal  — looking  over  her 
shoulder — ‘‘she's  my  gal,  Rob — half  starves  me.'' 

But  as  the  reluctant  Grinder  put  it  in  her  hand,  her 
daughter,  coming  quietly  back,  caught  the  hand  in  hers, 
and  twisted  out  the  coin. 

“ What,"  she  said,  “mother  ! always  money  ! money 
from  the  first,  and  to  the  last.  Do  you  mind  so  little 
what  I said  but  now  ? Here.  Take  it  I " 

The  old  woman  uttered  a moan  as  the  money  was  re- 
stored, but  without  in  any  other  way  opposing  its  restor- 
ation, hobbled  at  her  daughter's  side  out  of  the  yard,  and 
along  the  bye  street  upon  which  it  opened.  The  astom 
ished  and  dismayed  Rob  staring  after  them,  saw  that 
they  stopped,  and  fell  to  earnest  conversation  very  soon  ; 
and  more  than  once  observed  a darkly  threatening  action 
of  the  younger  woman's  hand  (obviously  having  refer- 
ence to  some  one  of  whom  they  spoke),  and  a crooning 
feeble  imitation  of  it  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Brown,  that 
made  him  earnestly  hope  he  might  not  be  tlie  subject  of 
their  discourse. 

With  the  present  consolation  that  they  were  gone, 
and  with  the  prospective  comfort  that  Mrs.  Brown  could 
not  live  forever,  and  was  not  likely  to  live  long  to  trou' 
ble  him,  the  Grinder,  not  otherwise  regretting  his  mis- 
deeds than  as  they  were  attended  with  such  disagreeable 
incidental  consequences,  composed  his  ruffled  features  to 
a more  serene  expression  by  thinking  of  the  admirable 
manner  in  which  he  had  disposed  of  Captain  Cuttle  (a 
reflection  that  seldom  failed  to  put  him  in  a flow  of 
spirits),  and  went  to  the  Dombey  counting-house  to  re- 
ceive his  master's  orders. 

There  his  master,  so  subtile  and  vigilant  of  eye,  that 
Rob  quaked  before  him,  more  than  half  expecting  to  be 
taxed  with  Mrs.  Brown,  gave  him  the  usual  morning’s 
box  of  papers  for  Mr.  Dombey,  and  a note  for  Mrs. 
Dombey  : merely  nodding  his  head  as  an  enjoinder  to  be 
careful,  and  to  use  dispatch — a mysterious  admonition, 
fraught  in  the  Grinder’s  imagination  with  dismal  warn- 
ings and  threats  ; and  more  powerful  with  him  than  any 
words. 

Alone  again,  in  his  own  room,  Mr.  Carker  applied 
himself  to  work,  and  worked  all  day.  He  saw  many 
visitors  ; over-looked  a number  of  documents  : went  in 
and  out,  to  and  from  sundry  places  of  mercantile  resort ; 
and  indulged  in  no  more  abstraction  until  the  day’s 
business  was  done.  But,  when  the  usual  clearance  of 


DOMBEY  AKJ)  SON. 


B65 


papers  from  Ills  table  was  made  at  last,  lie  fell  into  Ms 
thoughtful  mood  once  more. 

He  was  standing  in  his  accustomed  place  and  attitude, 
with  his  eyes  intently  hxed  upon  the  ground,  when  his 
brother  entered  to  bring  back  some  letters  that  had  been 
taken  out- in  the  course  of  the  day.  He  put  them  quietly 
on  the  table,  and  \Vas  going  immediately,  when  Mr. 
Carker  the  manager,  whose  eyes  had  rested  on  him,  on 
his  entrance,  as  if  they  had  all  this  time  had  him  for 
the  subject  of  their  contemplation,  instead  the  office- 
floor,  said  : 

Well,  John  Carker,  and  what  brings  you  here  ? ’’ 

His  brother  pointed  to  the  letters,  and  was  again  with- 
drawing. 

‘‘I  wonder/’  said  the  manager,  ‘'  that  you  can  come 
and  go,  without  inquiring  how  our  master  is.” 

“We  had  word  this  morning,  in  the  counting-house, 
that  Mr.  Dombey  was  doing  well,”  replied  his  brother. 

You  are  such  a meek  fellow,”  said  the  manager 
with  a smile  “ — but  you  have  grown  so,  in  the  course 
of  years~that  if  any  harm  came  to  him,  you’d  be  miser- 
able, I dare  swear  now.” 

“ I should  be  truly  sorry,  James,”  returned  the  other. 

“He  v/ould  be  sorry  1”  said  the  manager,  pointing  at 
him,  as  if  there  were  some  other  person  present  to  whom 
he  was  appealing.  “ He  would  be  truly  sorry  ! This 
brother  of  mine  ! This  junior  of  the  place,  this  slighted 
piece  of  lumber,  pushed  aside  with  his  face  to  the  wall, 
like  a rotten  picture,  and  left  so,  for  Heaven  knows 
how  many  years  ; he's  all  gratitude  and  respect,  and  de- 
votion too,  he  would  have  me  believe  !” 

“I  would  have  you  believe  nothing,  James,”  returned 
the  other.  Be  as  j list  to  me  as  you  would  to  any 
other  man  below  you.  You  ask  a question,  and  I an- 
swer it.” 

“And  have  you  nothing,  spaniel,”  said  the  manager, 
with  unusual  irascibility,  “ to  complain  of  in  him?  No 
proud  treatment  to  resent,  no  insolence,  no  foolery  of 
state,  no  exaction  of  any  sort  ! What  the  devil  ! are 
you  man  or  mouse  ? ” 

“ It  would  be  strange  if  any  two  persons  could  be  to- 
gether for  so  many  years,  especially  as  superior  and  in- 
ferior, without  each  having  something  to  complain  of  in 
the  other — as  he  thought,  at  all  events,”  replied  John 
Carker.  “But  apart  from  my  history  here — 

“ His  history  here  ! ” exclaimed  the  manager.  “ Why, 
there  it  is.  The  very  fact  that  makes  him  an  extreme 
case,  put  him  out  of  the  whole  chapter  ! Well  ?” 

“ Apart  from  that,  which,  as  you  hint,  gives  me  a 
reason  to  be  thankful  that  I alone  (happily  for  all  the 
rest)  possess,  surely  there  is  no  one  in  the  house  who 


366 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


would  not  say  and  feei  at  least  as  mucli.  You  do  not 
think  that  anybody  here  would  be  indifferent  to  a mis- 
chance or  misfortune  happening  to  the  head  of  the 
House,  or  anything  than  truly  sorry  for  it  ? 

You  have  good  reason  to  be  bound  to  him  too!” 
said  the  manager,  contemptuously,  Why,  don’t  you 
believe  that  you  are  kept  here,  as  a cheap  example, 
and  a famous  instance  of  the  clemency  of  Dombey 
and  Son,  redounding  to  the  credit  of  the  illnstilous 
House  ? ” 

No,”  replied  the  brother,  mildly,  I have  long  be- 
lieved that  I am  kept  here  for  more  kind  and  disinter- 
ested reasons.” 

“But  you  were  going,”  said  the  manager,  with  the  ' 
snarl  of  a tiger-cat,  “to  recite  some  Christian  precept,  I 
observed.” 

“ Nay,  James,”  returned  the  other,  “ though  the  tie  of 
brotherhood  between  us.  has  been  long  broken  and  thrown 
away — ” 

Who  broke  it,  good  sir  ? ” said  the  manager. 

“ I,  by  my  misconduct.  I do  not  charge  it  upon  you.’' 

The  manager  replied,  with  that  mute  action  of  his 
bristling  mouth,  “Oh,  you  don’t  charge  it  upon  me!’’ 
and  bade  him  go  on. 

“ I say,  though  there  is  not  that  tie  between  us,  do  not 
I entreat,  assail  me  with  unnecessary  taunts,  or  misin- 
terpret what  I say,  or  would  say.  I was  only  going  to 
suggest  to  you  that  it  would  be  a mistake  to  suppose 
that  it  is  only  you,  who  have  been  selected  here,  above 
all  others,  for  advancement,  confidence,  and  distinction 
(selected  in  the  beginning,  I know,  for  your  great  ability 
and  trustfulness),  and  who  communicate  more  freely 
with  Mr.  Dombey  than  any  one,  and  stand,  it  may  be 
said,  on  equal  terms  with  him,  and  have  been  favoured 
and  enriched  by  him — that  it  would  be  a mistake  to  sup- 
pose that  it  is  only  you  who  are  tender  of  his  welfare 
and  reputation.  There  is  no  one  in  the  house,  from 
yourself  down  to  the  lowest,  I sincerely  believe,  who 
does’not  participate  in  that  feeling.” 

“ You  lie,”  said  the  Manager,  r^  with  sudden  anger. 

“ You’re  a hypocrite,  John  Carter,  and  you  lie  !” 

“ James  ! ” cried  the  other,  flushing  in  his  turn. 

“ What  do  you  mean  by  these  insulting  words?  Why 
do  you  so  basely  use  them  to  me,  unprovoked  ? ” 

“ I tell  you,”  said  the  manager,  “ that  your  hypocrisy 
and  meekness- -that  all  the  hypocrisy  and  meekness  of 
this  place — is  not  worth  that  to  me,”  snapping  his  thumb 
and  Anger,  “ and  that  I see  through  it  as  if  it  were 
air  I There  is  not  a man  employed  here,  standing  be- 
tween myself  and  the  lowest  in  place  (of  whom  you  are 
very  considerate,  and  with  reason,  for  he  is  not  far  off), 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


867 


who  wouldn’t  be  glad  at  heart  to  see  his  master  hum  Died; 
who  does  not  hate  him,  secretly : who  does  not  vidsh  him 
evil  rather  than  good  : and  who  would  not  turn  upon 
him,  if  he  had  the  power  and  boldness.  The  nearer  to 
his  favour,  the  nearer  to  his  insolence  ; the  closer  to 
him,  the  farther  from  him.  That’s  the  creed  here  ! ” 

1 don’t  know,”  said  his  brother,  whose  roused  feel- 
ings had  soon  yielded  to  surprise,  who  may  have 
abused  your  ear  with  such  representations  : or  why  you 
have  chosen  to  try  me,  rather  than  another.  But  that 
you  have  been  trying  me,  and  tampering  with  me,  I am 
now  sure.  You  have  a different  manner  and  a different 
aspect  from  any  that  I ever  saw  in  you.  I will  only  say 
to  you,  once  more,  you  are  deceived.” 

I know  I am,”  said  the  manager.  I have  told  you 

so.” 

"‘Not  by  me,”  returned  his  brother.  By  your  in- 
formant, if  you  have  one.  If  not,  by  your  own  thoughts 
and  suspicions.” 

I have  no  suspicions,”  said  the  manager.  “ Mine  are 
certainties.  You  pusillanimous,  abject,  cringing  dogs  ! 
All  making  the  same  show,  all  canting  the  same  story, 
all  whining  the  same  professions,  all  harbouring  the 
transparent  secret.” 

His  brother  withdrew,  without  saying  more,  and  shut 
the  door  as  he  concluded.  Mr.  Carker  the  manager 
drew  a chair  close  before  the  fire,  and  fell  to  beating  the 
coals  softly  with  the  poker. 

The  faint-hearted,  fawning  knaves,”  he  muttered, 
with  his  two  shining  rows  of  teeth  laid  bare.  There’s 
not  one  among  them,  v/ho  wouldn’t  feign  to  be  so  shock- 
ed and  outraged — ! Bah  I There’s  not  one  among 
them,  but  if  he  had  at  once  the  power,  and  the  wit  and 
daring  to  use  it,  would  scatter  Dombey’s  pride  and  lay 
it  low,  as  ruthlessly  as  I rake  out  these  ashes.” 

As  he  broke  them  up,  and  strewed  them  in  the  grate, 
he  looked  on  with  a thoughtful  smile,  at  what  he  was 
doing.  Without  the  same  queen  beckon er  too  ! ” he 
added  presently;  and  there  is  a pride  there,  never  to 
he  forgotten-^witness  our  own  acquaintance  ! ” With 
that  he  fell  into  a deeper  reverie,  and  sat  pondering  over 
the  blackening  grate,  until  be  rose  up  like  a man  who 
had  been  absorbed  in  a book,  and  looking  around  him 
took  his  hat  and  gloves,  went  to  where  his  horse  v/as 
waiting,  mounted,  and  rode  away  through  the  lighted 
streets  ; for  it  was  evening. 

He  rode  near  Mr.  Domhey’s  house ; and  falling 
into  a walk  as  he  approached  it,  looked  up  at  the  win- 
dows. The  window  where  he  had  once  seen  Florence 
sitting  with  her  dog  attracted  his  attention  first,  though 
tnere  was  no  light  in  it  ; but  he  smiled  as  he  carried 


368  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

his  eyes  up  the  tall  front  of  the  house,  and  seemed  to 
leave  that  object  superciliously  behind. 

“ Time  was/’ he  said, when  it  was  well  to  watch 
even  your  rising*  little  star,  and  know  in  what  quarter 
there  were  clouds,  to  shadow  you  if  needful.  But  a 
planet  has  arisen,  and  you  are  lost  in  its  light.” 

He  turned  the  white-legged  horse,  round  the  street 
corner,  and  sought  one  shining  window  from  among 
those  at  the  back  of  the  house.  Associated  with  it  was 
a certain  stately  presence,  a gloved  hand,  the  remem- 
brance how  the  feathers  of  a beautiful  bird’s  wing  had 
been  showered  down  upon  the  floor,  and  how  the  light 
white  down  upon  a robe  had  stirred  and  rustled,  as  in 
the  rising  of  a distant  storm.  These  were  the  things  he 
carried  with  him  as  he  turned  away  again,  and  rode 
through  the  darkening  and  deserted  parks  at  a quick 
rate. 

In  fatal  truth,  these  were  associated  with  a woman,  a 
proud  woman,  who  hated  him,  but  who  by  slow  and  sure 
degrees  had  been  led  on  by  his  craft,  and  her  pride  and 
resentment,  to  endure  his  company,  and  little  by  little  to 
receive  him  as  one  who  had  the  privilege  to  talk  to  her 
of  her  own  deflant  disregard  of  her  own  husband,  and 
her  abandonment  of  high  consideration  for  herself. 
They  were  associated  wit^h  a woman  who  hated  him 
deeply,  and  who  knew  him,  and  who  mistrusted  him  be- 
cause she  knew  him,  and  because  he  knew  her  ; but  who 
fed  her  fierce  resentment  by  suffering  him  to  draw  nearer 
and  yet  nearer  to  her  every  day,  in  spite  of  the  hate  she 
cherished  for  him.  In  spite  of  it  ! For  that  very  rea- 
son ; since  its  depths,  too  far  down  for  her  threatening 
eye  to  pierce,  though  she  could  see  into  them  dimly,  lay 
the  dark  retaliation,  whose  faintest  shadow  seen  once 
and  shuddered  at,  and  never  seen  again,  would  have 
been  sufficient  stain  upon  her  soul. 

Did  the  phantom  of  such  a woman  flit  about  him  on 
tiis  ride  ; true  to  the  reality,  and  obvious  to  him  ? 

Yes.  He  saw  her  in  his  mind,  exactly  as  she  was. 
She  bore  him  company  with  her  pride,  resentment, 
hatred,  all  as  plain  to  him  as  her  beauty  ; with  nothing 
plainer  to  him  than  her  hatred  of  him.  He  saw  her 
sometimes  haughty  and  repellant  at  his  side,  and  some- 
times down  among  his  horse’s  feet,  fallen  and  in  the 
dust.  But  he  always  saw  her  as  she  was,  without  dis- 
guise, and  watched  her  on  the  dangerous  way  that  sho 
was  going. 

And  when  his  ride  was  over,  and  he  Avas  newly 
dressed,  and  came  into  the  light  of  her  bright  room  vdth 
his  bent  head,  soft  voice,  and  soothing  smile,  he  saw  her 
yet  as  plainly.  He  eA^en  suspected  the  mystery  of  the 
gloved  hand,  and  held  it  all  the  longer  in  his  own  for 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


369 


that  suspicion.  Upon  the  dangerous  way  that  she  was 
going,  he  was  still  ^ and  not  a footprint  did  she  mark 
upon  it,  but  he  set  his  own  there,  straight. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

The  Thmiderbolt. 

The  barrier  between  Mr.  Dombey  and  his  wife,  was 
not  weakened  by  time.  Ill-assorted  couple,  unhappy  in 
themselves  and  in  each  other,  bound  together  by  no  tie 
but  the  manacle  that  joined  their  fettered  hands,  and 
straining  that  so  harshly,  in  their  shrinking  asunder, 
that  it  wore  and  chafed  to  the  bone.  Time,  consoler  of 
affliction  and  softener  of  anger,  could  do  nothing  to  help 
them.  Their  pride,  however  different  in  kind  and  ob- 
ject, was  equal  in  degree  ; and,  in  their  flinty  opposition, 
struck  out  fire  between  them  which  might  smoulder  or 
might  blaze,  as  circumstances  were,  but  burned  up  ev- 
erything within  their  mutual  reach,  and  made  their  mar- 
ri^e  way  a road  of  ashes. 

Let  us  be  just  to  him  : In  the  monstrous  delusion  of 
his  life,  swelling  with  every  grain  of  sand  that  shifted 
in  its  glass,  he  urged  her  on,  he  little  thought  to  what, 
or  considered  how  ; but  still  his  feeling  towards  her, 
such  as  it  was,  remained  as  at  first.  She  had  the  grand 
demerit  of  unaccountably  putting  herself  in  opposition 
to  the  recognition  of  his  vast  importance,  and  to  the 
acknowledgment  of  her  complete  submission  to  it,  and 
so  far  it  was  necessary  to  correct  and  reduce  her ; but 
otherwise  he  still  considered  her,  in  his  cold  way,  a lady 
capable  of  doing  honour,  if  she  would,  to  his  choice  and 
name,  and  of  reflecting  credit  on  his  proprietorship. 

Now,  she  with  all  her  might  of  passionate  and  proud 
resentment,  bent  her  dark  glance  from  day  to  day,  and 
hour  to  hour — from  that  night  in  her  own  chamber,  when 
she  had  sat  gazing  at  the  shadows  on  the  wall,  to  the 
deeper  night  fast  coming — upon  one  figure  directing  a 
crowd  of  humiliations  and  exasperations  against  her  ; 
and  that  figure,  still  her  husband’s. 

Was  Mr.  Dombey’s  master- vice  that  ruled  him  so  inex- 
orably, an  unnatural  characteristic  ? It  might  be  worth 
while,  sometimes,  to  inquire  what  Nature  is,  and  how 
men  work  to  change  her,  and  whether,  in  the  enforced 
distortions  so  produced,  it  is  not  natural  to  be  unnatural. 
Coop  any  son  or  daughter  of  our  mighty  mother  within 
narrow  range,  and  bind  the  prisoner  to  one  idea,  and 
foster  it  by  servile  worship  of  it  on  the  part  of  the  few 
timid  or  designing  people  standing  round,  and  what  is 


370 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Nature  to  the  willing  captive  who  has  never  risen  up  upon 
the  wings  of  a free  mind — drooping  and  useless  soon— to 
see  her  in  her  comprehensive  truth  ! 

Alas  ! are  there  are  so  few  things  in  the  world,  about 
us,  most  unnatural,  and  yet  most  natural  in  being  so  ! 
Hear  the  magistrate  or  judge  admonish  the  unnatural 
outcasts  of  society  ; unnatural  in  brutal  habits,  unnatural 
in  want  of  decency,  unnatural  in  losing  and  confounding 
all  distinctions  between  good  and  evil  ; unnatural  in 
ignorance,  in  vice,  in  recklessness,  in  contumacy,  in  mind, 
in  looks,  in  everything.  But  follow  the  good  clergyman 
or  doctor,  who,  with  his  life  imperilled  at  every  breath 
he  draws,  goes  down  into  their  dens,  l3dng  within  the 
echoes  of  our  carriage  wheels  and  daily  tread  upon  the 
pavement  stones.  Look  round  upon  the  world  of  odious 
sights — millions  of  immortal  .creatures  have  no  other 
world  on  earth — at  the  lightest  mention  of  which  human- 
ity revolts,  and  dainty  delicacy  living  in  the  next  street, 
stops  her  ears,  and  lisps,  I don’t  believe  it  !”  Breathe 
the  polluted  air,  foul  with  every  impurity  that  is  poison- 
ous to  health  and  life  ; and  have  every  sense,  conferred 
upon  our  race  for  its  delight  and  happiness,  offended, 
sickened,  and  disgusted,  and  made  a channel  by  which 
misery  and  death  alone  can  enter.  Vainly  attempt  to 
think  of  any  simple  plant,  or  flower,  or  wholesome  weed, 
that,  set  in  this  foetid  bed,  could  have  its  natural  growth, 
or  put  its  little  leaves  forth  to  the  sun  as  God  designed 
it.  And  then,  calling  up  some  ghastly  child,  with  stunted 
form,  and  wicked  face,  hold  forth  on  its  unnatural  sin- 
fulness, and  lament  its  being,  so  early,  far  away  from 
Heaven — but  think  a little  of  its  having  been  conceived, 
and  born  and  bred  in  Hell  ! 

Those  who  study  the  physical  sciences,  and  bring  them 
to  bear  upon  the  health  of  man,  tell  us  that  if  the  nox- 
ious particles  that  rise  from  vitiated  air,  were  palpable 
to  the  sight,  we  should  see  them  lowering  in  a dense 
black  cloud  above  such  haunts,  and  rolling  slowly  on  to 
corrupt  the  better  portions  of  the  town.  But  if  the 
moral  pestilence  that  rises  with  them,  and,  in  the  eternal 
laws  of  outraged  Nature,  is  inseparable  from  them,  could 
be  made  discernible  too,  how  terrible  the  revelation  ! 
Then  should  we  see  depravity,  impiety,  drunkenness, 
theft,  murder,  and  a long  train  of  nameless  sins  against 
the  natural  affections  and  repulsions  of  mankind,  over- 
hanging the  devoted  spots,  and  creeping  on,  to  blight 
the  innocent  and  spread  contagion  among  the  pure.  Then 
should  we  see  how  the  same  poisoned  fountains  that  flow 
into  our  hospitals  and  lazar-houses,  inundate  the  jails, 
and  make  the  convict-ships  swim  deep,  and  roll  across 
the  seas,  and  over  run  vast  continents  with  crime.  Then 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


371 


should  we  stand  appalled  to  know,  that  where  we  gen, 
erate  disease  to  strike  our  children  down  and  entail  itself 
on  unborn  generations,  there  also  we  breed,  by  the  same 
certain  process,  infancy  that  knows  no  innocence,  youth 
without  modesty  or  shame,  maturity  that  is  mature  in 
nothing  but  in  suffering  and  in  guilt,  blasted  old  age 
that  is  a scandal  on  the  form  we  bear.  Unnatural 
humanity  ! When  we  shall  gather  grapes  from  thorns, 
and  figs  from  thistles  ; when  fields  of  grain  shall  spring 
up  from  the  offal  in  the  by  ways  of  our  wicked  cities,  and 
roses  bloom  in  the  fat  church-yards  that  they  cherish  ] 
then  we  may  look  for  natural  humanity,  and  find  it  grow* 
ing  from  such  seed. 

Oh  for  a good  spirit  who  would  take  the  house-tops  off, 
with  a more  potent  and  benignant  hand  than  the  lame 
demon  in  the  tale,  and  show  a Christian  people  what 
dark  shapes  issue  from  amidst  their  homes,  to  swell  the 
retinue  of  the  Destroying  Angel  as  he  moves  forth  among 
them  ! For  only  one  night’s  view  of  the  pale  phantoms 
rising  from  the  scenes  of  our  too-long  neglect ; and,  from 
the  thick  and  sullen  air  where  Vice  and  Fever  propagate, 
together,  raining  the  tremendous  social  retributions 
which  are  ever  pouring  down,  and  ever  coming  thicker  j 
Bright  and  blest  the  morning  that  should  rise  on  such  a 
night : for  men,  delayed  no  more  by  stumbling-blocks  of 
their  own  making,  which  are  but  specks  of  dust  upon  the 
path  between  them  and  eternity,  would  then  apply  them- 
selves, like  creatures  of  one  common  origin,  owning  one 
duty  to  the  Father  of  one  family,  and  tending  to  one 
common  end,  to  make  the  world  a better  place  ! 

Not  the  less  bright  and  blest  would  that  day  be  for 
rousing  some  who  never  have  looked  out  upon  the  world 
of  human  life  around  theni,  to  a knowledge  of  their  own 
relation  to  it,  and  for  making  them  acquainted  with  a 
perversion  of  nature  in  their  own  contracted  sympathies 
and  estimates  ; as  great,  and  yet  as  natural  in  its  develop- 
ment when  once  begun,  as  the  lowest  degradation  known. 

But  no  such  day  had  ever  dawned  on  Mr.  Dombey,  or 
his  wife  ; and  the  course  of  each  was  taken. 

Through  six  months  that  ensued  upon  his  accident, 
they  held  the  same  relations  one  tov»^ards  the  other.  A 
marble  rock  could  not  have  stood  more  obdurately  in  his 
way  than  she  ; and  no  chilled  spring,  lying  uncheered  by 
any  ray  of  light  in  the  depths  of  a deep  cave,  could  be 
more  sullen  or  more  cold  than  he. 

The  hope  that  had  fluttered  within  her  when  the  pro- 
mise of  her  new  home  dawned,  was  quite  gone  from  the 
heart  of  Florence  now.  That  home  was  nearly  two  years 
old  ; and  even  the  patient  trust  that  was  in  her,  could  not 
survive  the  daily  blight  of  such  experience.  If  she  had 
any  lingering  fancy  in  the  na,ture  of  hope  left,  that  Edith 


872 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


and  lier  father  might  he  happier  together  in  some  dis- 
tant time,  she  had  none,  now,  that  her  father  would  ever 
love  her.  The  little  interval  in  which  she  had  imagined 
that  she  saw  some  small  relenting  in  him,  was  forgotten 
in  the  long  remembrance  of  his  coldness  since  and  be- 
fore, or  only  remembered  as  a sorrowful  delusion. 

Florence  loved  him  still,  but  by  degrees,  had  come  to 
love  him  rather  as  some  dear  one  who  had  been,  or  who 
might  have  been,  than  as  the  hard  reality  before  her 
eyes.  Something  of  the  softened  sadness  with  which 
she  loved  the  memory  of  little  Paul,  or  her  mother, 
seemed  to  enter  now  into  her  thoughts  of  him,  and  to 
make  them,  as  it  were,  a dear  remembrance.  Whether 
it  was  that  he  was  dead  tp  her,  and  that  partly  for  this 
reason,  partly  for  his  share  in  those  old  objects  of  her 
affection,  and  partly  for  the  long  association  of  him  with 
hopes  that  were  withered  and  tendernesses  he  had  fro- 
zen, she  could  not  have  told  ; but  the  father  whom  she 
loved  began  to  be  a vague  and  dreamy  idea  to  her ; 
hardly  more  substantially  connected  with  her  real  life, 
than  the  image  she  would  sometimes  conjure  up  of  her 
dear  brother  yet  alive,  and  growing  to  be  a man,  who 
would  protect  and  cherish  her. 

The  change,  if  it  may  be  called  one,  had  stolen  on  her 
like  the  change  from  childhood  to  womanhood,  and  had 
come  with  it.  Florence  was  almost  seventeen,  when,  in 
her  lonely  musings,  she  was  conscious  of  these  thoughts. 

She  was  often  alone  now,  for  the  old  association  be- 
tween her  and  her  mama  was  greatly  changed.  At  the 
time  of  her  father’s  accident,  and  when  he  was  lying  in 
his  room  down-stairs,  Florence  had  first  observed  that, 
Edith  avoided  her.  Wounded  and  shocked,  and  yet  um 
able  to  reconcile  this  with  her  affection  when  they  did 
meet,  she  sought  her  in^  her  own  room  at  night,  once 
more. 

‘‘Mama,”  said  Florence,  stealing  softly  to  her  side, 
“have  I have  offended  you?’*' 

Edith  answered  “ No.” 

“ I must  have  done  something,”  said  Florence.  “Tell 
me  what  it  is.  You  have  changed  your  manner  to  me, 
dear  mama.  I cannot  say  how  instantly  I feel  the  least 
change  ; for  1 love  you  with  my  whole  heart.” 

“As  I do  you,”  said  Edith.  “Ah,  Florence,  believe 
me  never  more  than  now  ! ” 

“Why  do  you  go  away  from  me  so  often,  and  keep 
away?”  asked  Florence.  And  why  do  you  sometimes 
look  so  strangely  on  me,  dear  mama?  You  do  so,  do  you 
not?” 

Edith  signified  assent  with  her  dark  eyes. 

Why,”  returned  Florence  imploringly.  “ Tell  m© 


DOMBBT  AISD  SON. 


S io 


wliy,  that  I may  know  how  to  please  you  better ; and 
tell  me  this  shall  not  be  so  any  more.” 

‘ “My  Florence/’  answered  Edith,  taking  the  hand  that 
embraced  her  neck,  and  looking  into  the  eyes  that  looked 
into  hers  so  lovingly,  as  Florence  knelt  upon  the  ground 
before  her  ; “ why  it  is,  I cannot  tell  you.  It  is  neither 
for  me  to  say  nor  you  to  hear  ; but  that  it  is,  and  that  it 
must  be,  I know.  Should  I do  it  if  I did  not?” 

“Are  ice  to  be  estranged,  mama?”  asked  Florence, 
gazing  at  her  like  one  frightened. 

Edith’s  silent  lips  formed  “ Yes.” 

Florence  looked  at  her  with  increasing  fear  and  won- 
der, until  she  could  see  her  no  more  through  the  blind- 
ing tears  that  ran  down  her  face. 

“Florence  ! my  life  !”  said  Edith,  hurriedly,  listen  to 
me.  I cannot  bear  to  see  this  grief.  Bo  calmer.  You 
see  that  I am  composed,  and  is  it  nothing  to  me  ? ” 

She  resumed  her  steady  voice  and  manner  as  she  said 
the  latter  words,  and  added  presently  : 

“ Not  wholly  estranged.  Partially  : and  only  that,  m 
appearance,  Florence,  for  in  my  own  breast  I am  still 
the  same  to  you,  and  ever  will  be.  But  what  I do  is  not 
done  for  myself.” 

“ Is  it  for  me,  mama?”  asked  Edith. 

“It  is  enough,”  said  Edith,  after  a pause,  “to  know 
what  it  is  ; why,  matters  little.  Dear  Florence,  it  is 
better — it  is  necessary — it  must  be — that  our  association 
should  be  less  frequent.  The  confidence  there  has  been 
between  us  must  be  broken  off.” 

“ When?”  cried  Florence.  “Oh,  mama,  when  ? ” 

“ Now,”  said  Edith. 

“ For  all  time  to  come?”  asked  Florence. 

“ I do  not  say  that,”  answered  Edith.  “ I do  not  know 
that.  Nor  will  I say  that  companionship  between  us, 
is,  at  the  best,  an  ill-sorted  and  unholy  union,  of  which 
I might  have  known  no  good  could  come.  My  way  here 
has  heen  through  paths  that  you  will  never  tread,  and  my 
way  henceforth  may  lie — God  knows — I do  not  see  it — ” 

Her  voice  died  away  into  silence  ; and  she  sat,  looking 
at  Florence,  and  almost  shrinking  from  her,  with  the 
same  strange  dread  and  wild  avoidance  that  Florence 
had  noticed  once  before.  The  same  dark  pride  and  rage 
succeeded,  sweeping  over  her  form  and  features  like  an 
angry  chord  across  the.stnings  of  a wild  harp.  But  no 
softness  or  humility  ensued  on  that.  She  did  not  lay 
her  head  down  now,  and  weep,  and  say  that  she  had  no 
hope  but  in  Florence.  She  held  it  up  as  if  she  were  a 
beautiful  Medusa,  looking  on  him,  face  to  face,  to  strike 
him  dead.  Yes,  and  she  would  have  done  it  if  she  had 
had  the  charm. 

“ Mama,”  said  Florence  anxiously,  “ there  is  a change 


374 


WORKS  OF  CHi.ELSS  DICKENS. 


in  you,  in  more  than  what  you  say  to  me,  which  alarms 
me*  Let  me  stay  with  you  a little. 

‘‘  No,”  said  Edith,  no  dearest.  I am  best  left  alone 
now,  and  I do  best  to  keep  apart  from  you,  of  all  else. 
Ask  me  no  questions,  hut  believe  that  what  I am  when  I 
seem  fickle  or  capricious  to  you,  I am  not  of  my  own 
will,  or  for  myself.  Believe,  though  we  are  stranger  to 
each  other  than  we  have  been,  that  I am  unchanged  to 
you  within.  Forgive  me  for  having  ever  darkened  your 
dark  home — I am  a shadow  on  it,  I know  well— and  let 
us  never  speak  of  this  again.” 

Mama,”  sobbed  Florence.  we  are  not  to  nart  f ” 

We  do  this  that  we  may  not  part,”  said  Edith.  Ask 
no  more.  Go,  Florence  ! My  love  and  my  remorse  go 
with  you  1 ” 

She  embraced  her,  and  dismissed  her  j and  as  Florence 
passed  out  of  her  room,  Edith  looked  on  the  retiring 
figure,  as  if  her  good  angel  went  out  in  that  form,  and 
left  her  to  the  haughty  and  indignant  passions  that  now 
claimed  her  for  their  own,  and  set  their  seal  upon  her 
brow. 

From  that  hour,  Florence  and  she  were,  as  they  had 
been,  no  more.  For  days  together,  they  would  seldom 
meet,  except  at  table,  and  when  Mr.  Dombey  was  present. 
Then  Edith,  imperious,  inflexible,  and  silent,  never 
looked  at  her.  Whenever  Mr.  Carker  was  of  the  party, 
as  he  often  was,  during  the  progress  of  Mr.  Dombey’s 
recovery,  and  afterwards,  Edith  held  herself  more  re- 
moved from  her,  and  was  more  distant  towards  her, 
than  at  other  times.  Yet  she  and  Florence  never  en- 
countered, when  there  was  no  one  by,  but  she  would 
embrace  her  as  affectionately  as  of  old,  though  not  with 
the  same  relenting  of  her  proud  aspect  ; and  often,  when 
she  had  been  out  late,  she  would  steal  up  to  Florence’s 
room,  as  she  had  been  used  to  do,  in  the  dark,  and 
whisper  “ Good  night,”  on  her  pillow.  When  uncon- 
scious, in  her  slumber,  of  such  visits,  Florence  would 
sometimes  awake,  as  from  a dream  of  those  words, 
softly  spoken,  and  would  seem  to  feel  the  touch  of  lips 
upon  her  face.  But  less  and  less  often  as  the  months 
went  on. 

And  now  the  void  in  Florence’s  own  heart  began  again, 
indeed,  to  make  a solitude  around  her.  As  the  image 
of  the  father  whom  she  loved  had  insensibly  become  a 
mere  abstraction,  so  Edith,  following  the  fate  of  all  the 
rest  about  whom  her  affection^  had  entwined  themselves, 
was  fleeting,  fading,  growing  paler  in  the  distance, 
every  day.  Little  by  little,  she  receded  from  Florence, 
like  the  retiring  ghost  of  what  she  had  been  ; little  hy 
little,  the  chasm  between  them  widened  and  seemed 
deeper  ; little  by  little,  all  the  pov/er  of  earnestness  and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


375 


tenderness  slie  had  shown,  was  frozen  up  in  the  bold, 
angry  hardihood  with  which  she  stood,  upon  the  brink 
of  a deep  precipice  unseen  by  Florence,  daring  to  look 
down. 

There  was  but  one  consideration  to  set  against  the 
heavy  loss  of  Edith,  and  though  it  was  slight  comfort  to 
the  burdened  heart,  she  tried  to  think  it  some  relief. 
No  longer  divided  between  her  affection  and  duty  to  the 
two,  Florence  could  love  both  and  do  no  injustice  to 
either.  As  shadows  of  her  fond  imagination,  she  could 
give  them  equal  place  in  her  own  bosom,  and  wrong 
tfhem  with  no  doubts. 

So  she  tried  to  do.  At  'times,  and  often  too,  wonder- 
ing speculations  on  the  cause  of  this  change  in  Edith, 
would  obtrude  themselves  upon  her  mind  and  frighten 
her  ; but  in  the  calm  of  its  abandonment  once  more  to 
silent  grief  and  loneliness,  it  was  not  a curious  mind. 
Florence  had  only  to  remember  that  her  star  of  promise 
was  clouded  in  the  general  gloom  that  hung  upon  the 
house,  and  to  weep  and  be  resigned. 

Thus  living,  in  a dream  wherein  the  overflowing  love 
of  her  young  heart  expended  itself  on  airy  forms,  and  in 
a real  world  where  she  had  experienced  little  but  the 
rolling  back  of  that  strong  tide  upon  itself,  Florence  grew 
to  be  seventeen.  Timid  and  retiring  as  her  solitary  life 
had  made  her,  it  had  not  embittered  her  sweet  temper, 
or  her  earnest  nature.  A child  in  innocent  simplicity  ; a 
woman  in  her  modest  self-reliance,  and  her  deep  inten- 
sity of  feeling  ; both  child  and  woman  seemed  at  once 
expressed  in  her  fair  face  and  fragile  delicacy  of  shape, 
and  gracefully  to  mingle  there  ; — as  if  the  spring  should 
be  unwilling  to  depart  when  summer  came,  and  sought 
to  blend  the  earlier  beauties  of  the  flowers  with  their 
bloom.  But  in  her  thrilling  voice,  in  her  calm  eyes, 
sometimes  in  a strange  ethereal  light  that  seemed  to 
rest  upon  her  head,  and  always  in,  a certain  pensive 
air  upon  her  beauty,  there  was  an  expression,  such  as 
had  been  seen  in  the  dead  boy  ; and  the  council  in  the 
Servants"  Hall  whispered  so  among  themselves,  and  shook 
their  heads,  and  ate  and  drank  the  more,  in  a closer  bond 
of  good-fellowship. 

This  observant  body  had  plenty  to  say  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Dombey,  and  of  Mr.  Carker,  who  appeared  to  be  a 
mediator  between  them,  and  who  came  and  went  as  if 
he  were  trying  to  make  peace,  but  never  could.  They 
all  deplored  the  uncomfortable  state  of  aifairs,  and  all 
agreed  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  (whose  unpopularity  was  not 
to  be  surpassed)  had  some  hand  in  it  ; but,  upon  the 
whole,  it  was  agreeable  to  have  so  good  a subject  for  a 
rallying  point,  and  they  made  a great  deal  of  it,  and  en- 
joyed Aemselves  very  much. 


376 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


The  general  visitors  who  came  to  the  house,  and  those 
among  whom  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dombey  visited,  thought  it 
a pretty  equal  match,  as  to  haughtiness,  at  all  events, 
and  thought  nothing  more  about  it.  The  young  lady 
with  the  back  did  not  appear  for  some  time  after 
Mrs.  Skewton's  death ; observing  to  some  particular 
friends,  with  her  usual  engaging  little  scream,  that  she 
couldn’t  separate  the  family  from  a notion  of  tombstones, 
and  horrors  of  that  sort  ; but  when  she  did  come,  she 
saw  nothing  wrong,  except  Mr.  Dombey  wearing  a bunch 
of  gold  seals  to  his  watch,  which  shocked  her  very  much, 
as  an  exploded  superstition.  This  youthful  fascinator 
considered  a daughter-in-law  objectionable  in  principle  ; 
otherwise,  she  had  nothing  to  say  against  Florence,  but 
that  she  sadly  wanted  ‘'style” — which  might  mean 
back,  perhaps.  Many,  who  only  came  to  the  house  on 
state  occasions,  hardly  knew  who  Florence  was,  and 
said,  going  home,  “Indeed  ! wa^  that  Miss  Dombey,  in 
the  corner?  Very  pretty,  but  a little  delicate  and 
thoughtful  in  appearance  ! ” 

None  the  less  so,  certainly,  for  her  life  of  the  last  six 
months,  Florence  took  her  seat  at  the  dinner-table,  on 
the  day  before  the  second  anniversary  of  her  father’s 
marriage  to  Edith  (Mrs.  Skewton  had  been  lying  stricken 
with  paralysis  when  the  first  came  round),  with  an  un- 
easiness, amounting  to  dread.  She  had  no  other  war- 
rant for  it,  than  the  occasion,  the  expression  of  her 
father’s  face,  in  the  hasty  glance  she  caught  of  it,  and 
the  presence  of  Mr.  Carker,  which,  always  unpleasant 
to  her,  was  more  so  on  this  day,  than  she  had  ever  felt 
it  before. 

Edith  was  richly  dressed,  for  she  and  Mr.  Dombey 
were  engaged  in  the  evening  to  some  large  assembly, 
and  the  dinner-hour  that  day  was  late.  She  did  not 
appear  until  they  were  seated  at  the  table,  when  Mr, 
Carker  rose  and  led  her  to  her  chair.  Beautiful  and 
lustrous  as  she  was,  there  was  that  in  her  face  and  air 
which  seemed  to  separate  her  hopelessly  from  Florence, 
and  from  every  one,  for  ever  more.  And  yet,  for  an  in- 
stant, Florence  saw  a beam  of  kindness  in  her  eyes,  when 
they  were  turned  on  her,  that  made  the  distance  to  which 
she  had  withdrav/n  herself,  a greater  cause  of  sorrow^ 
and  regret  than  ever. 

There  was  very  little  said  at  dinner.  Florence  heard 
her  father  speak  to  Mr.  Carker  sometimes  on  business 
matters,  and  heard  him  softly  reply,  but  she  paid  little 
attention  to  what  they  said,  and  only  wished  the  dinner 
at  an  end.  When  the  dessert  was  jdaced  upon  the 
table,  and  they  were  left  alone,  with  no  servant  in  at- 
tendance, Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  been  several  times  clear- 
ing his  throat  in  a manner  that  argued  no  good,  said  : 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


377 


Mrs.  Dombey,  you  know,  I suppose,  that  I have  in- 
structed the  housekeeper  that  there  will  be  some  com- 
pany to  dinner  here  to-morrow. 

do  not  dine  at  home,”  she  answered. 

‘'Not  a large  party,”  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  with  an 
indiiferent  assumption  of  not  having  heard  her ; “ merely 
some  twelve  or  fourteen.  My  sister.  Major  Bags  took, 
and  some  others  whom  you  know  but  slightly,” 

“ I do  not  dine  at  home,”  she  repeated. 

“However  doubtful  reason  I may  have,  Mrs.  Dom 
bey,"’  said  Mr.  Dombey,  still  going  majestically  on,  as 
if  she  had  not  spoken,  “ to  hold  the  occasion  in  very 
pleasant  remembrance  just  now,  there  are  appearances 
in  these  things  which  must  be  maintained  before  the 
world.  If  you  have  no  respect  for  yourself,  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey—” 

“I  have  none,”  she  said. 

“ Madam,”  cried  Mr.  Dombey,  striking  his  hand  upon 
the  table,  “ hear  me,  if  you  please.  I say,  if  you  have 
no  respect  for  yourself — ” 

“ And  I say  I have  none,”  she  answered. 

He  looked  at  her  ; but  the  face  she  showed  him  in  re- 
turn would  not  have  changed,  if  death  itself  had  looked. 

•'  Carker,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  turning  more  quietly  to 
that  gentleman,  “ as  you  have  been  my  medium  of  com- 
munication with  Mrs.  Dombey  on  former  occasions,  and 
as  I choose  to  preserve  the  decencies  of  life,  so  far  as  I 
am  individually  concerned,  I will  trouble  you  to  have 
the  goodness  to  inform  Mrs.  Dombey  that  if  she  has  no 
respect  for  herself,  I have  some  respect  for  and 

therefore  insist  on  my  arrangements  for  to-morrow.” 

“Tell  your  sovereign  master,  sir,”  said  Edith,  “that 
I will  take  leave  to  speak  to  him  on  this  subject  by-and- 
by,  and  that  I will  speak  to  him  alone.” 

“Mr.  Carker,  madam,”  said  her  husband,  “being  in 
possession  of  the  reason  which  obliges  me  to  refuse  you 
that  privilege,  shall  be  absolved  from  the  delivery  of 
any  such  message.”  He  saw  her  eyes  move,  while  he 
spoke,  and  followed  them  with  his  own. 

“Your  daughter  is  present,  sir,”  said  Edith. 

“My  daughter  will  remain  present,”  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey. 

Florence,  who  had  risen,  sat  down  again,  hiding  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  trembling. 

“My  daughter,  madam” — -began  Mr.  Dombey. 

But  Edith  stopped  him,  in  a voice  which,  although  not 
raised  in  the  least,  was  so  clear,  emphatic,  and  distinct, 
that  it  might  have  been  heard  in  a whirlwind. 

“ I tell  you  I will  speak  to  you  alone,”  she  said.  “ If 
you  are  not  mad,  heed  what  I say.” 

“ I have  authority  to  speak  to  you,  madam,”  returned 


378 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


her  husband,  when  and  where  I please  ; and  it  is  my 
pleasure  to  speak  here  and  now/’ 

She  rose  up  as  if  to  leave  the  room  ; but  sat  down 
again,  and  looking  at  him  with  all  outward  composure, 
said,  in  the  same  voice  : 

‘‘You  shall  ! ” 

“I  must  tell  you  first,  that  there  is  a threatening  ap- 
pearance in  your  manner,  madam,”  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
“ which  does  not  become  you.” 

She  laughed.  The  shaken  diamonds  in  her  hair  started 
and  trembled.  There  are  fables  of  precious  stones  that 
would  turn  pale,  their  wearer  being  in  danger.  Had 
these  been  such,  their  imprisoned  rays  of  light  would 
have  taken  flight  that  moment,  and  they  would  have 
been  as  dull  as  lead. 

Carker  listened,  with  his  eyes  cast  down. 

“ As  to  my  daughter,  madam,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  re- 
suming the  thread  of  his  discourse,  “it  is  by  no  means 
inconsistent  with  her  duty  to  me,  that  she  should  know 
what  conduct  to  avoid.  At  present  you  are  a very  strong 
example  to  her  of  this  kind,  and  I hope  she  may  profit 
by  it.” 

“I  would  not  stop  you  now,”  returned  his  wife,  im- 
movable in  eye,  and  voice,  and  attitude  ; “I  would  not 
Hse  and  go  away,  and  save  you  the  utterance  of  one 
word,  if  the  room  were  burning.” 

Mr.  Dombey  moved  his  head,  as  if  in  a sarcastic  ac- 
knowledgment of  the  attention,  and  resumed.  But  not 
with  so  much  self-possession  as  before  ; for  Edith’s 
quick  uneasiness  in  reference  to  Florence,  and  Edith’s 
indifference  to  him  and  his  censure,  chafed  and  galled 
him  like  a stiffening  wound. 

“Mrs.  Dombey,”  said  he,  “it  may  not  be  inconsistent 
With  my  daughter’s  improvement  to  know  how  very 
inuch  to  be  lamented,  and  how  necessary  to  be  corrected, 
a stubborn  disposition  is,  especially  when  it  is  indulged 
in — unthaokfully  indulged  in,  I will  add — after  the 
gratification  of  ambition  and  interest.  Both  of  which, 
I believe,  had  some  share  in  inducing  you  to  occupy 
your  present  station  at  this  board.” 

“ No  ! I would  not  rise,  and  go  away,  and  save  you 
the  utterance  of  one  word,”  she  repeated,  exactly  as  be- 
fore, “if  the  room  were  burning.” 

“It  may  be  natural  enough,  Mrs.  Dombey,”  he  pur- 
sued, “ that  you  should  be  uneasy  in  the  presence  of 
any  auditors  of  these  disagreeable  truths  ; though  why 
— ” he  could  not  hide  his  real  feelings  here,  or  keep  his 
eyes  from  glancing  gloomily  at  Florence — “ why  any  one 
can  give  them  greater  force  and  point  than  myself,  whom 
they  so  nearly  concern,  I do  not  pretend  to  understand. 
It  may  be  natural  enough  that  you  should  object  to  hear. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


379 


In  anybody's  presence,  tbat  there  is  a rebellious  principle 
within  you  which  you  cannot  curb  too  soon  ; which  you 
must  curb,  Mrs.  Dombey ; and  which,  I regret  to  sav,  1 
remember  to  have  seen  manifested — with  some  doubt 
and  displeasure,  on  more  than  one  occasion  before  our 
marriage — towards  your  deceased  mother.  But  you 
have  the  remedy  in  your  own  hands.  I by  no  means 
forgot,  when  I began,  that  my  daughter  was  present, 
Mrs.  Dombey.  I beg  you  will  not  forget  to-morrow, 
that  there  are  several  persons  present ; and  that,  with 
some  regard  to  appearances,  you  will  receive  your  com- 
pany in  a becoming  manner. " 

“So  it  is  not  enough,"  said  Edith,  “ that  you  know 
what  has  passed  between  yourself  and  me  ; it  is  not 
enough  that  you  can  look  here,"  pointing  at  Carker,  who 
still  listened,  with  his  eyes  cast  down,  “ and  be  reminded 
of  the  affronts  you  have  put  upon  me  ; it  is  not  enough 
that  you  can  look  here,"  pointing  to  Florence  with 
hand  that  slightly  trembled  for  the  first  and  only  time, 
“and  think  of  what  you  have  done,  and  of  the  ingenh 
ous  agony,  daily,  hourly,  constant,  you  have  made  me 
feel  in  doing  it  ; it  is  not  enough  that  this  day,  of  all 
others  in  the  year,  is  memorable  to  me  for  a struggle 
(well- deserved,  but  not  conceivable  by  such  as  you)  in 
which  I wish  I had  died  ! You  add  to  all  this,  do  you, 
the  last  crowning  meanness  of  making  her  a witness  of 
the  depth  to  which  I have  fallen  ; when  you  know  that 
you  have  made  me  sacrifice  to  her  peace,  the  only  gentle 
feeling  and  interest  of  my  life  ; when  you  know  that  for 
her  sake,  I would  now  if  I could — but  I can  not,  my  soul 
recoils  from  you  too  much — submit  myself  wholly  to 
your  will,  and  be  the  meekest  vassal  that  you  have  I " 

This  was  not  the  way  to 'minister  to  Mr.  Dombey ’s 
greatness.  The  old  feeling  was  roused  by  what  she  said 
7nto  a stronger  and  fiercer  existence  than  it  had  ever  had. 
Again,  his  neglected  child,  at  this  rough  passage  of  his 
life,  put  forth  by  even  this  rebellious  woman,  as  power- 
ful where  he  was  powerless,  and  everything  where  he 
was  nothing  ! 

He  turned  on  Florence,  as  if  it  were  she  who  had 
spoken,  and  bade  her  leave  the  room.  Florence  with 
her  covered  face  obeyed,  trembling  and  weeping  as  she 
went. 

“I  understand,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  an 
angry  flush  of  triumph,  “the  spirit  of  opposition  that 
turned  your  affections  in  that  channel,  but  they  havo 
been  met,  Mrs.  Dombey  ; they  have  been  met,  and  turned 
back  ! " 

“ The  worse  for  you ! " she  answered,  with  her  voice 
and  manner  still  unchanged.  “ Ay  ! " for  he  turned 
sharply  when  she  said  so^  “what  is  the  worse  for  me^ 


380 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Vs  twenty  million  times  tlie  worse  for  you.  Heed  that, 
if  you  heed  nothing  else.’"" 

The  arch  of  diamonds  spanning  her  dark  hair,  flashed 
and  glittered  like  a starry  bridge.  There  was  no  warn, 
ing  in  them,  or  they  would  have  turned  as  dull  and  dim 
as  tarnished  honour.  Carker  still  sat  and  listened,  with 
hitf  eyes  cast  down. 

‘‘  Mrs.  Dombey,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  resuming  as  much 
as  he  could  of  his  arrogant  composure,  “you  will  not 
conciliate  me,  or  turn  me  from  any  purpose,  by  this 
course  of  conduct.” 

“It  is  the  only  truth  although  it  is  a faint  expression 
of  what  is  within  me,”  she  replied.  “ But  if  I thought 
it  would  conciliate  you,  I would  repress  it,  if  it  were  re- 
pressible  by  any  human  effort.  I will  do  nothing  that 
you  ask.” 

“ I am  not  accustomed  to  ask,  Mrs.  Bombey,”  he  ob- 
served ; “I  direct.” 

“ I will  hold  no  place  in  your  house  to-morrow,  or  oa 
any  recurrence  of  to-morrow.  I will  be  exhibited  to  no 
one,  as  the  refractory  slave  you  purchased,  such  a time. 
If  I kept  my  marriage-day,  1 would  keep  it  as  a day  of 
shame.  Self-respect  ! appearances  before  the  world! 
what  are  these  to  "me  ? You  have  done  all  you  can  to 
make  them  nothing  to  me,  and  they  are  nothing.” 

“ Carker,”  said  Mr.  Dombey,  speaking  with  knitted 
brows,  and  after  a moment’s  consideration,  “ Mrs.  Dom- 
bey is  so  forgetful  of  herself  and  me  in  all  this,  and 
places  me  in  a position  so  unsuited  to  my  character,  that 
I must  bring  this  state  of  matters  to  a close .” 

“Release  me,  then,”  said  Edith,  immovable  in  voice, 
in  look,  and  bearing,  as  she  had  been  throughout,  “ from 
the  chain  by  which  I am  bound.  Let  me  go.” 

“ Madam?”  exclaimed  Mr.  Dombey. 

“ Loose  me.  Set  me  free  I” 

“Madam?”  he  repeated,  “Mrs.  Dombey?” 

“ Tell  him,”  said  Edith,  addressing  her  proud  face  to 
Carker,  “that  I wish  for  a separation  between  us.  That 
there  had  better  be  one.  That  I recommend  it  to  him. 
Tell  him  it  may  take  place  on  his  own  terms — his  wealth 
is  nothing  to  me — but  that  it  cannot  be  too  soon.” 

“Good  Heaven,  Mrs.  Dombey!”  said  her  husband, 
with  supreme  amazement,  “ do  you  imagine  it  possible 
that  I could  ever  listen  to  such  a proposition  ? Do  you 
know  who  I am,  madam  ? Do  you  know  what  I repre- 
sent ? Did  you  ever  hear  of  Dombey  and  Son  ? People 
to  say  that  Mr.  Dombey — Mr.  Dombey  I — was  separated 
from  his  wife  ! Common  people  to  talk  of  Mr.  Dombey 
and  his  domestic  affairs  ! Do  you  seriously  think  Mrs. 
Dombey,  that  1 would  permit  my  name  to  be  handed 
about  in  such  connexion  ? Pooh,  pooh,  madam  I Fie 


DOM«BEY  AN?®  SON. 


381 


for  skame  I Yom^re  absurd/*  Ms*.  Dombey  absolutely 
laughed. 

But  not  as  she  did.  She  had  better  have  been  dead 
than  laugh  as  she  did,  in  reply,  with  her  intent  look 
fixed  upon  him.  He  had  better  have  been  dead,  than 
sitting  there,  in  his  magnificence,  to  hear  her. 

“No,  Mrs.  Dombey,"'  he  resumed,  “no,  madam, 
There  is  no  possibility  of  separation  between  you  and 
me,  and  therefore  I the  more  advise  you  to  be  awakened 
to  a sense  of  duty.  And,  Carker,  as  I was  about  to  say 
to  you — 

Mr.  Carker,  who  had  sat  and  listened  all  this  time, 
now  raised  his  eyes,  in  which  there  was  a bright  un- 
natural light. 

“ — As  I was  about  to  say  to  you,"’  resumed  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  “ I must  beg  you,  now  that  matters  have  come  to 
this,  to  inform  Mrs.  Dombey,  that  it  is  not  the  rule  of 
my  life  to  allov/  myself  to  be  thwarted  by  anybody — any- 
body, Carker — or  to  suffer  anybody  to  be  paraded  as  a 
stronger  motive  for  obedience  in  those  who  owe  obedi- 
ence to  me  than  I am  myself.  The  mention  that  has 
been  made  of  my  daughter,  and  the  use  that  is  made  of 
my  daughter,  in  opposition  to  me,  are  unnatural. 
Whether  my  daughter  is  in  actual  concert  with  Mrs. 
Dombey,  I do  not  know,  and  do  not  care  ; but  after  what 
Mrs.  Dombey  has  said  to-day,  and  my^  daughter  has 
heard  to-day,  I beg  you  to  make  known  to  Mrs.  Dombey, 
that  if  she  continues  to  make  this  house  the  scene  of 
contention  it  has  become,  I shall  consider  my  daughter 
responsible  in  some  degree,  on  that  lady’s  own  avowal, 
and  shall  visit  her  with  my  severe  displeasure.  Mrs. 
Dombey  has  asked  ‘ whether  it  is  not  enough,’  that  she 
had  done  this  and  that.  You  will  please  to  answer  no, 
it  is  not  enough.” 

“A  moment!”  cried  Carker,  interposing,  “permit 
me  ! painful  as  my  position  is,  at  the  best,  and  unusually 
painful  in  seeming  to  entertain  a different  opinion  from 
you,”  addressing  Mr.  Dombey,  “I  must  ask,  had  you 
not  better  re-consider  the  question  of  a separation.  I 
know  how  incompatible  it  appears  with  your  high  public 
position,  and  I know  how  determined  you  are,  when  you 
give  Mrs.  Dombey  to  understand  ” — the  light  in  his  eyes 
fell  upon  her  as  he  separated  his  words  each  from  each, 
with  the  distinctness  of  so  many  bells-—' ' that  nothing 
but  death  can  ever  part  you.  Nothing  else.  But  when 
you  consider  that  Mrs.  Dombey,  by  living  in  this  house, 
and  making  it,  as  you  have  said,  a scene  of  contention, 
not  only  has  her  part  in  that  contention,  but  compromises 
Miss  Dombey  every  day  (for  I know  how  determined  you- 
are),  will  you  not  relieve  her  from  a continual  irritation 
of  spirit,  and  a continual  sense  of  beiny  unjust  to  anotherc 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


almost  intolerable  ? Does  this  not  seem  like — I do  not 
saj  it  is — sacrificing  Mrs.  Dombey  to  the  preservation 
of  your  pre-eminent  and  unassailable  position  ? ” 

Again  the  light  in  his  eyes  fell  upon  her,  as  she  stood 
looking  at  her  husband  : now  with  an  extraordinary  and 
awful  smile  upon  her  face. 

‘‘  Carker,’"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a supercilious 
frown,  and  in  a tone  that  was  intended  to  be  final,  “ you 
mistake  your  position  in  offering  advice  to  me  on  such  a 
point,  and  you  mistake  me  (I  am  surprised  to  find)  in  the 
character  of  your  advice.  I have  no  more  to  say.^’ 

Perhaps,’^  said  Carker,  with  an  unusual  and  in- 
definable taunt  in  his  air,  "mistook  my  position, 

when  you  honoured  me  with  the  negotiations  in  which  I 
have  been  engaged  here  ’’ — with  a motion  of  his  hand 
towards  Mrs.  Dombey. 

‘"Not  at  all,  sir,  not  at  all,”  returned  the  other 
haughtily.  ""You  were  employed — ” 

""  Being  an  inferior  person,  for  the  humiliation  of  Mrs. 
Dombey.  I forgot.  Oh,  yes,  it  was  expressly  under- 
stood ! ” said  Carker.  ""  I beg  your  pardon  ! ” 

As  he  bent  his  head  to  Mr.  "Dombey,  with  an  air  of 
deference  that  accorded  ill  with  his  words,  though  they 
were  humbly  spoken,  he  moved  it  round  towards  her, 
and  kept  his  watching  eyes  thalhway. 

She  had  better  have  turned  hideous  and  dropped  dead, 
than  have  stood  up  with  such  a smile  upon  her  face,  in 
such  a fallen  spirit’s  majesty  of  scorn  and  beauty.  She 
lifted  her  hand  to  the  tiara  of  bright  jewels  radiant  on 
her  head,  and,  plucking  it  off  with  a force  that  dragged 
and  strained  her  rich  black  hair  with  heedless  cruelty, 
and  brought  it  tumbling  wildly  on  her  shoulders,  cast  the 
gems  upon  the  ground.  From  each  arm,  she  unclasped  a 
diamond  bracelet,  flung  it  down,  and  trod  upon  the  glit- 
tering heap.  Without  a word,  without  a shadow  on  the 
fire  of  her  bright  eye,  without  abatement  of  her  awful 
smile,  she  looked  on  Mr.  Dombey  to  the  last,  in  moving 
to  the  door  ; and  left  him. 

Florence  had  heard  enough  before  quitting  the  room, 
to  know  that  Edith  loved  her  yet  ; that  she  had  stiffered 
for  her  sake  ; and  that  she  had  kept  her  sacrifices  quiet, 
lest  they  should  trouble  her  peace.  She  did  not  want  to 
speak  to  her  of  this — she  could  not,  remembering  to 
whom  she  was  opposed — but  she  wished,  in  one  silent 
and  affectionate  embrace,  to  assure  her  that  she  felt  it 
all,  and  thanked  her. 

Her  father  went  out  alone,  that  evening,  and  Florence 
issuing  from  her  own  chamber  soon  afterwards,  went 
about  the  house  in  search  of  Edith,  but  unavailingly. 
She  was  in  her  own  rooms,  where  Florence  had  long 
ceased  to  go,  and  did  not  dare  to  venture  now,  lest  she 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


383 


should  unconsciously  engender  nev/  trouble.  Still  Flor- 
ence, hoping  to  meet  her  before  going  to  bed,  changed 
from  room  to  room,  and  wandered  through  the  house  so 
splendid  and  so  dreary,  without  remaining  anywhere. 

She  was  crossing  a gallery  of  communication  that 
opened  at  some  little  distance  on  the  staircase,  and  was 
only  lighted  on  great  occasions,  when  she  saw,  through 
the  opening,  which  was  an  arch,  the  figure  of  a man 
coming  down  some  few  stairs  opposite.  Instinctively 
apprehensive  of  her  father,  whom  she  supposed  it  was, 
she  stopped,  in  the  dark,  gazing  through  the  arch  into 
the  light.  But  it  w’as  Mr.  Carker  coming  down  alone, 
and  looking  over  the  railing  into  the  hall.  No  bell  was 
rung  to  announce  his  departure,  and  no  servant  was  in 
attendance.  He  went  down  quietly,  opened  the  door 
for  himself,  glided  out,  and  shut  it  softly  after  him. 

Her  invincible  repugnance  to  this  man,  and  perhaps 
the  stealthy  act  of  watching  any  one,  which,  even  under 
such  innocent  circumstances,  is  in  a manner  guilty  and 
oppressive,  made  Florence  shake  from  head  to  foot. 
Her  blood  seemed  to  run  cold.  As  soon  as  she  could — 
for  at  first  she  felt  an  insurmountable  dread  of  moving 
— she  went  quickly  to  her  own  room  and  locked  her 
door  ; but  even  then,  shut  in  with  her  dog  beside  her, 
felt  a chill  sensation  of  horror,  as  if  there  were  danger 
brooding  somewhere  near  her. 

It  invaded  her  dreams  and  disturbed  the  whole  night. 
Rising  in  the  morning,  unrefreshed,  and  with  a heavy 
recollection  of  the  domestic  unhappiness  of  the  preced- 
ing day,  she  sought  Edith  again,  in  all  the  rooms,  and 
did  so,  from  time  to  time,  all  the  morning.  But  she  re- 
mained in  her  own  chamber,  and  Florence  saw  nothing 
of  her.  Learning,  however,  that  the  projected  dinner 
at  home  was  put  off,  Florence  thought  it  likely  that  she 
would  go  out  in  the  evening  to  fulfil  the  engagement 
she  had  spoken  of  : and  resolved  to  try  and  meet  her, 
then,  upon  the  staircase. 

When  the  evening  had  set  in,  she  heard,  from  the 
room  in  which  set  on  purpose,  a footstep  on  the  stairs 
that  she  thought  to  be  Edith’s.  Hurrying  out,  and^up 
towards  her  room,  Florence  met  her  immediately,  com- 
ing down  alone. 

What  was  Florence’s  affright  and  wonder  when,  at 
sight  of  her,  wdth  her  tearful  face,  and  outstretched 
arms,  Edith  recoiled  and  shrieked  ! 

''Don’t  come  near  me  1 she  cried.  Keep  away  ! 
Let  me  go  by  ! ” 

“ Mama  ! ” said  Florence. 

''Don’t  call  me  by  that  name  ! Don’t  speak  to  me  ! 
Don’t  look  at  me  ! — Florence  ! ” shrinking  back,  as  Flor- 
ence moved  a step  towards  her,  "don’t  touch  me  ! ” 


384 


WORK8  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS- 


As  Florence  stood  transfixed  before  the  haggard  face 
and  staring  eyes,  she  noted,  as  in  a dream  that  Edith 
spread  her  hands  over  them,  and,  shuddering  through 
all  her  form,  and  crouching  down  against  the  wall, 
cravded  by  her  like  some  lov/er  animal,  sprang  up,  and 
fied  away. 

Florence  dropped  upon  the  stairs  in  a swoon  ; and  was 
found  there  by  Mrs.  Pipchin,  she  supposed.  She  knew 
nothing  more,  until  she  found  herself  lying  on  her  own 
bed,  with  Mrs.  Pipchin  and  some  servants  standing 
round  her. 

Where  is  mama?’’  was  her  first  question. 

Gone  out  to  dinner,”  said  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

And  papa?” 

“Mr.  Dombey’s  in  his  own  room.  Miss  Dombey,”  said, 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  “ and  the  best  thing  you  can  do,  is  to  take 
o:fi  your  things  and  go  to  bed  this  minute.”  This  was 
the  sagacious  woman’s  remedy  for  all  complaints,  par- 
ticularly lowness  of  spirits,  and  inability  to  sleep  ; for 
which  offences  many  young  victims  in  the  days  of  the 
Brighton  Castle  had  been  committed  to  bed  at  ten  o’clock 
in  the  morning. 

Without  promising  obedience,  but  on  the  plea  of  de- 
siring to  be  very  quiet,  Florence  disengaged  herself,  as 
soon  as  she  could,  from  the  ministration  of  Mrs.  Pipchin 
and  her  attendants.  Left  alone,  she  thought  of  what 
had  happened  on  the  staircase,  at  first  in  doubt  of  its 
reality  ; then  with  tears  ; then  with  an  indescribable  and 
terrible  alarm,  like  that  she  had  felt  the  night  before. 

She  determined  not  to  go  to  bed  until  Edith  returned, 
and  if  she  ’ could  not  speak  to  her,  at  least  to  be  sure 
that  she  was  safe  at  home.  What  indistinct  and  shadowy 
dread  moved  Florence  to  this  resolution,  she  did  not 
know,  and  did  not  dare  to  think.  She  only  knew  that 
until  Edith  came  back,  there  was  no  repose  for  her 
aching  head  or  throbbing  heart. 

The  evening  deepened  into  night ; midnight  came  ; no 
Edith. 

Florence  could  not  read,  or  rest  a moment.  She 
paced  her  own  room,  opened  the  door  and  paced  the 
staircase-gallery  outside,  looked  out  of  window  on  the 
night,  listened  to  the  wind  blowing  and  the  rain  fall- 
ing, sat  down  and  watched  the  faces  in  the  fire,  got  up 
and  watched  the  moon  flying  like  a storm-driven  ship 
through  the  sea  of  clouds. 

All  the  house  w^as  gone  to  bed,  except  two  servants 
who  were  w'aiting  the  return  of  their  mistress,  down- 
stairs. 

One  o’clock.  -The  carriages  that  rumbled  in  the  dis- 
tance, turned  away,  or  stopped  short,  or  'went  past ; the 
silence  gradually  * deepened,  and  w^as  more  and  more 


DOMBEY  AND  SOX. 


885 


rarely  broken,  save  by  a rush  of  wind  or  sweep  of  rain. 
Two  o’clock.  No  Editli. 

Florence,  more  agitated,  paced  lier  room  ; and  paced 
the  gallery  outside  ; and  looked  out  at  the  night,  blurred 
and  wavy  with  the  rain-drops  on  th'e  glass,  and  the  tears 
in  her  own  eyes  ; and  looking  up  at  the  hurry  in  the  sky, 
so  different  from  the  repose  below,  and  yet  so  tranquil 
and  solitary.  Three  o’clock.  There  ivas  a terror  in 
every  ash  that  dropped  out  of  the  fire.  No  Edith  yet. 

More  and  more  agitated,  Florence  paced  her  room,  and 
paced  the  gallery,  and  looked  out  at  the  moon  with  a 
new  fancy  of  her  likeness  to  a pale  fugitive  hurrying 
away  and  hiding  her  guilty  face.  Four  struck  I Five  1 
No  Edith  yet. 

But  now  there  was  some  cautious  stir  in  the  house  ; 
and  Florence  found  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  had  been  awak- 
ened by  one  of  those  who  sat  u]:),  had  risen  and  had  gone 
down  to  her  father’s  door.  Stealing  lower  down  the 
stairs  and  observing  what  passed,  she  saw  her  father 
come  out  in  his  morning-gown,  and  start  v/hen  he  was 
told  his  wife  had  not  come  home.  He  dispatched  a mes- 
senger to  the  stables  to  inquire  whether  the  coachman 
v/as  there  ; and  while  the  man  was  gone,  dressed  himself 
very  hurriedly. 

The  man  came  back,  in  great  haste,  bringing  the 
coachman  with  him,  who  said  he  had  been  at  home  and 
in  bed  since  ten  o’clock.  He  had  driven  his  mistress  to 
her  old  house  in  Brook-street,  where  she  had  been  met 
by  Mr.  Carker- — 

Florence  stood  upon  the  very  spot  w^here  she  had  seen 
him- coming  down.  Again  she  shivered  with  the  name- 
less terror  of  that  sight,  and  had  hardly  steadiness 
enough  to  hear  and  understand  what  followed. 

— -Who  had  told  him,  the  man  went  on  to  say,  that  his 
mistress  would  not  v/ant  the  carriage  to  go  home  in  ; and 
had  dismissed  him.  She  saw  her  father  turn  white  in 
the  face,  and  heard  him  ask  in  a quick,  trembling  voice, 
for  Mrs.  Hombey’s  maid.  The  whole  house  was  roused  | 
for  she  was  there  in  a moment,  very  pale  too,  and  speak- 
ing incoherently. 

She  said  she  liad  dressed  her  mistress  early— -full  two 
hours  before  she  went  out — and  had  been  told,  as  she 
often  was,  that  she  would  not  be  wanted  at  night.  She 
had  just  come  from  her  mistress’s  rooms,  but — 

"‘But  what  ! what  was  it?”  Florence  heard  her  father 
demand  like  a madman. 

“ But  the  inner  dressing-room  was  locked,  and  th^kej 
gone.” 

Her  father  seized  a candle  that  was  flaming  on  the 
ground — some  one  had  put  it  down  there,  and  forgotten 
it— and  came  running  up-stairs  with  such  fury,  that 


386 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Florence,  m lier  fear,  had  hardly  time  to  Gy  before  him. 
She  heard  him  striking  in  the  door,  as  she  ran  on,  with 
her  hands  wildly  spread,  and  her  hair  streaming,  and 
her  face  like  a distracted  person’s,  back  to  her  own  room. 

When  the  door  yielded,  and  he  rushed  in,  what  did 
he  see  there  ? No  one  knew.  But  thrown  down  in  a 
costly  mass  upon  the  ground,  was  every  ornament  she 
had  had,  since  she  had  been  his  wife ; every  dress  she 
had  worn  ; and  everything  she  had  possessed.  This  was 
the  room  in  which  he  had  seen,  in  yonder  mirror,  the 
proud  face  discard  him.  This  was  the  room  in  which  he 
had  wondered,  idly,  how  these  things  would  look  wheu 
he  should  see  them  next ! 

Heaping  them  hack  into  the  drawers,  and  locking  them 
up  in  a rage  of  haste,  he  saw  some  papers  on  the  table. 
The  deed  of  settlement  he  had  executed  on  their  mar. 
riage,  and  a letter.  He  read  that  she  was  gone.  He 
read  that  he  was  dishonoured.  He  read  that  she  had 
fled,  upon  her  shameful  wedding-day,  with  the  man 
whom  he  had  chosen  for  her  humiliation  ; and  he  tore 
out  of  the  room,  and  out  of  the  house,  with  a frantic  idea 
of  finding  her  yet,  at  the  place  to  which  she  had  been 
taken,  and  beating  all  trace  of  beauty  out  of  the  tri  - 
umphant face  with  his  bare  hand. 

Florence,  not  knowing  what  she  did,  put  on  a shawl 
and  bonnet,  in  a dream  of  running  through  the  streets 
until  she  found  Edith,  and  then  clasping  her*  in  her 
arms,  to  save  and  bring  her  back.  But  when  she  hurried 
out  upon  the  staircase,  and  saw  the  frightened  servants 
going  up  and  down  with  lights,  and  whispering  together, 
and  falling  away  from  her  father  as  he  passed  down,  she 
awoke  to  a sense  of  her  own  powerlessness  ; and  hiding 
In  one  of  the  great  rooms  that  had  been  made  gorgeous 
for  t/i'is,  felt  as  if  her  heart  would  burst  with  grief. 

Compassion  for  her  father  was  the  first  distinct  emo- 
tion that  made  head  against  the  flood  of  sorrow  w^hich 
overwhelmed  her.  Her  constant  nature  turned  to  him  in 
his  distress^  as  fervently  and  faithfully,  as  if,  in  his 
prosperity,  he  had  been  the  embodiment  of  that  idea 
which  had  gradually  become  so  faint  and  dim.  Al- 
though she  did  not  know,  otherwise  than  through  the 
suggestions  of  a shapeless  fear,  the  full  extent  of  his 
calamity,  he  stood  before  her  wronged  and  deserted  , 
and  again  her  yearning  love  impelled  her  to  his  side. 

He  was  not  long  away  : for  Florence  was  yet  weeping 
m the  great  room  and  nourishing  these  thoughts,  when 
she  heard  him  come  back.  He  ordered  the  servants  to 
set  about  their  ordinary  occupations,  and  wen^  into  his 
own  apartment,  Avhere  he  trod  so  heavily  that  she  could 
hear  him  walking  up  and  down  from  end  to  end. 

Yielding,  at  once,  to  the  impulse  of  her  aflection,  timid 


DOMBEY  AND  SON, 


387 


at  all  other  times,  hut  bold  in  its  truth  to  him  in  his  ad 
versitj,  and  undaunted  by  past  repulse,  Florence,  dressed 
as  she  was,  hurried  down-stairs.  As  she  set  her  light 
foot  in  the  hall,  he  came  out  of  his  room.  She  hastened 
towards  him  unchecked,  with  her  arnis  stretched  out, 
and  crying  “Oh  dear,  dear  papa  f ” as  if  she  v/ould  have 
clasped  him  round  the  neck. 

And  so  she  would  have  done.  But  in  his  frenzy,  he 
lifted  up  his  cruel  arm,  and  struck  her,  crosswise,  with 
that  heaviness  that  she  tottered  on  the  marble  floor  ■ 
and  as  he  dealt  the  blow  he  told  her  what  Edith  was, 
and  bade  her  follow  her,  since  they  had  always  been  in 
league. 

did  not  sink  down  at  his  feet  ; she  did  not  shut 
out  the  sight  of  him  with  her  trembling  hands  ; she  did 
not  weep  ; she  did  not  utter  one  word  of  reproach.  But 
she  looked  at  him,  and  a cry  of  desolation  issued  from 
her  heart.  For  as  she  looked,  she  saw  him  murdering 
that  fond  idea  to  which  she  had  held  in  spite  of  him. 
She  saw  his  cruelty,  neglect,  and  hatred  dominant  above 
it,  and  stamping  it  down.  She  saw  she  had  no  father 
upon  earth,  and  ran  out,  orphaned,  from  his  house. 

Kan  out  of  his  house.  A moment,  and  her  hand  was 
on  the  lock,  the  cry  was  on  her  lips,  his  face  was  there, 
made  paler  by  the  yellow  candles  hastily  put  down  and 
guttering  away,  and  by  the  daylight  coming  in  above  the 
door.  Another  moment,  and  the  close  darkness  of  the 
shut-up  house  (forgotten  to  be  opened,  though  it  was 
long  since  day)  yielded  to  the  unexpected  glare  and  free- 
dom  of  the  morning  ; and  Florence,  with  her  head  bent 
down  to  hide  her  agony  of  tears,  was  in  the  streets. 


CHAPTER  XLYIII. 

The  Flight  of  Florence. 

In  the  wildness  of  her  sorrow,  shame,  and  terror,  the 
forlorn  girl  hurried  through  the  sunshine  of  a bright 
morning,  as  if  it  were  the  darkness  of  a winter  night. 
Wringing  her  hands  and  weeping  bitterly,  insensible  to 
everything  but  the  deep  v/ound  in  her  breast,  stunned  by 
the  loss  of  all  she  loved,  left  like  the  sole  survivor  on  a 
lonely  shore  from  the  wreck  of  a great  vessel,  she  fled 
without  a thought,  without  a hope,  without  a purpose, 
but  to  fly  somewhere — anywhere. 

The  cheerful  vista  of  the  long  street,  burnished  by  the 
morning  light,  the  sight  of  the  blue  sky  and  airy 
clouds,  the  vigorous  freshness  of  the  day,  so  flushed  and 
so  rosy  in  its  conquest  of  the  night,  awakened  norespou* 


888 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


sive  feelings  in  lier  so  Lnrt  bosom.  Some  where,  any. 
where,  to  hide  her  head  ! somewhere  anywhere,  for 
refuge,  never  more  to  look  upon  the  place  from  which 
she  fled  ! 

But  there  were  people  going  to  and  fro  ; there  were 
opening  shops,  and  servants  at  the  doors  of  houses ; 
there  was  the  rising  clash  and  roar  of  the  day's  struggle. 
Florence  saw  surprise  and  curiosity  in  the  faces  flitting 
past'  her  ; saw  long  shadows  coming  back  upon  the  pave- 
ment : and  heard  voices  that  were  strange  to  her  asking 
her  where  she  went,  and  what  the  matter  was  ; and 
though  these  frightened  her  the  more  at  first,  and  made 
her  hurry  on  the  faster,  they  did  her  the  good  service  of 
recalling  her  in  some  degree,  to  herself,  and  reminding 
her  of  the  necessity  of  greater  composure. 

Where  to  go  ? Still  somewhere,  anywhere  ! still  going 
on  ; but  where  I She  thought  of  the  other  only  time 
she  had  been  lost  in  the  wide  wilderness  of  London — 
though  not  lost  as  now— and  went  that  way.  To  the  home 
of  Walter's  uncle. 

Checking  her  sobs,  and  drying  her  swollen  eyes,  and 
endeavouring  to  calm  the  agitation  of  her  manner,  so  as 
to  avoid  attracting  notice,  Florence,  resolving  to  keep  to 
the  more  quiet  streets  as  long  as  she  could,  was  going  on 
more  quietly  herself,  when  a familiar  little  shadow  darted 
past  upon  the  sunny  pavement,  stopped  short,  wheeled 
about,  came  close  to  her,  made  off  again,  bounded  round 
and  round  her,  and  Diogenes,  panting  for  breath,  and 
yet  making  the  street  ring  with  his  glad  bark,  was  at  her 
feet. 

Oh,  Di  ! oh,  dear,  true,  faithful  Di,  how  did  you 
come  here  ! How  could  I ever  leave  you,  Di,  who  would 
never  leave  me  ! " 

Florence  bent  down  on  the  pavement,  and  laid  his 
rough,  old,  loving,  foolish  head  against  her  breast,  and 
*diej  got  up  together,  and  went  on  together  ; Di  more  ofi 
the  ground  than  on  it,  endeavouring  to  kiss  his  mistress 
flying,  tumbling  over  and  getting  up  again  without  the 
least  concern,  dashing  at  big  dogs  in  a jocose  defiance  of 
his  species,  terrifying  with  touches  of  his  nose  young 
housemaids  who  were  cleaning  doorsteps,  and  continu- 
ally stopping,  in  the  midst  of  a thousand  extravagances, 
to  look  back  at  Florence,  and  bark  until  all  ►the  dogs 
within  hearing  answered,  and  all  the  dogs  who  could 
come  out,  came  out  to  stare  at  him. 

With  this  last  adherent,  Florence  hurried  away  in  the 
advancing  morning, and  the  strengthening  sunshine, to  the 
city.  The  roar  soon  grew  more  loud,  the  passengers 
more  numerous,  the  shops  more  busy,  until  she  was 
carried  onward  in  a stream  of  life  setting  that  way,  and 
flowing  indifferently,  past  marts  and  mansions,  prisons. 


FLORENCE  MADE  A MOTION  WITH  HER  HAND  TOWARDS  HIM,  REELED,  AND  FELL  UPON  THE  FLOOR. 

— Dombey  and  Son,  Vol.  Twelve,  page  S89 


390 


WORKS  OF  CHAKLiUS  DICKENS. 


churclies,  market-places,  wealtli,  poverty,  good  and  evil, 
like  the  broad  river,  side  by  side  with  it,  awakened  from 
its  dreams  of  rushes,  willows,  and  green  moss,  and  roll- 
ing on,  turbid  and  troubled,  among  the  works  and  cares  of 
men,  to  the  deep  sea. 

At  length  the  quarters  of  the  little  Midshipman  arose 
in  view.  Nearer  yet,  and  the  little  Midshipman  himself 
was  seen  upon  his  post,  intent  as  ever,  on  his  observa- 
tions. Nearer  yet,  and  the  door  stood  open,  inviting  her 
to  enter,  Florence,  who  had  again  quickened  her  pace, 
as  she  approached  the  end  of  her  journey,  ran  across  the 
road  (closely  followed  by  Diog'enes,  whom  the  bustle 
had  somewhat  confused),  ran  in,  and  sank  upon  the 
threshold  of  the  well -remembered  little  parlour. 

The  captain,  in  his  glazed  hat,  was  standing  over  the 
fire,  making  his  morning’s  cocoa,  with  that  elegant  tri- 
fle, his  watch,  upon  the  chimney-piece,  for  easy  refer- 
ence during  the  progress  of  the  cookery.  Hearing  & 
footstep  and  the  rustle  of  a dress,  the  captain  turned 
with  a palpitating  remembrance  of  the  dreadful  Mrs. 
MacStinger,  at  the  instant  when  Florence  made  a motion 
with  her  hand  towards  him,  reeled,  and  fell  upon  the 
floor. 

The  captain,  pale  as  Florence,  pale  in  the  very  knobs 
upon  his  face,  raised  her  like  a baby,  and  laid  her  on  the 
same  old  sofa  upon  which  she  had  slumbered  long  ago. 

It’s  Heart’s  Delight !”  said  the  captain,  looking  in- 
tently in  her  face.  It’s  the  sweet  creetur  growl’d  a 
woman  ! ” 

Captain  Cuttle  was  so  respectful  of  her,  and  had  such 
a reverence  for  her,  in  this  new  character,  that  he  would 
not  have  held  her  in  his  arms,  while  she  was  uncon- 
scious, for  a thousand  pounds. 

“ My  Heart’s  Delight ! ” said  the  captain,  withdrawing 
to  a little  distance,  with  the  greatest  alarm  and  sym- 
pathy depicted  on  his  countenance.  If  you  can  hail 
Ned  Cuttle  wdtli  a finger,  do  it ! ” 

But  Florence  did  not  stir. 

My  Heart’s  Delight!”  said  the  trembling  captain. 
^‘For  the  sake  of  Wai’r  drowuded  in  the  briny  deep, 
turn  to,  and  histe  up  something  or  another,  if  able  I ” 

Finding  her  insensible  to  this  impressive  adjuration 
also,  Captain  Cuttle  snatched  from  his  breakfast-table, 
a basin  of  cold  water,  and  sprinkled  some  upon  her  face. 
Yielding  to  the  urgency  of  the  case,  the  captain  then, 
using  his  immense  hand  with  extraordinary  gentleness, 
relieved  her  of  her  bonnet,  moistened  lier  lips  and  fore- 
head, put  hack  her  hair,  covered  her  feet  with  his  own 
coat  which  he  pulled  oft*  for  the  purpose,  patted  her 
hand — so  small  in  his,  that  he  was  struck  with  wonder 
V/heu  he  touched  it — and  seeing  that  her  eyelids  quiv- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


391 


ered,  and  that  lier  lips  began  to  move,  continued  these 
Restorative  applications  with  a better  heart. 

Cheerily,''  said  the  captain.  “Cheerily?  Stand 
by,  my  pretty  one,  stand  by  ! There  ! You're  better 
now.  Steady's  the  word,  and  steady  it  is.  Keep  her 
so  ! Drink  a little  drop  o'  this  here,"  said  the  captain. 
“ There  you  are  ! What  cheer  now,  my  pretty,  what 
cheer  now  ? ” 

At  this  stage  of  her  recovery.  Captain  Cuttle,  vdth  an 
Imperfect  association  of  a Watch  with  a Physician’s 
treatment  of  a patient,  took  his  own  down  from  the 
mantel-shelf,  and  holding  it  out  on  his  hook,  and  taking 
Florence's  hand  in  his,  looked  steadily  from  one  to  the 
other,  as  expecting  the  dial  to  do  something. 

“ What  cheer,  my  pretty  ? " said  the  captain.  “ What 
cheer  now  2 You've  done  her  some  good  my  lad,  1 be- 
lieve," said  the  captain  under  his  breath,  and  throwing 
an  approving  glance  upon  his  watch.  “ Put  you  back 
half-an-hour  every  morning,  and  about  another  quarter 
towards  the  afternoon,  and  you're  a watch  as  can  be 
ekalled  by  few  and  excelled  by  none.  What  cheer,  my 
lady  lass  ! " 

“Captain  Cuttle!  Is  it  you!"  exclaimed  Florence, 
raising  herself  a little. 

“Yes,  yes,  my  lady  lass,”  said  the  captain,  hastily 
deciding  in  his  own  mind  upon  the  superior  elegance  of 
that  form  of  address,  as  the  most  courtly  he  could  think 

^ Is  Walter's  uncle  here?"  asked  Florence. 

“Here,  pretty!"  returned  the  captain.  “He  an't 
been  here  this  many  a long  day.  He  an't  been  heerd 
on,  since  he  sheered  oif  arter  poor  Wal'r.  But,"  said 
the  captain,  as  a quotation,  “Though  lost  to  sight, 
to  memory  dear,  and  England,  Home,  and  Beauty  ! " 

“ Do  you  live  here  ?”  asked  Florence. 

“ Yes,  my  lady  lass/'  returned  the  captain. 

“Oh  Captain  Cuttle!”  cried  Florence,  putting  her 
hands  together,  and  speaking  wildly.  “ Save  me  ! keep 
me  here  ! Let  no  one  know  where  I am  ! I’ll  tell  you 
what  has  happened  by-and-by,  when  I can.  I have  no 
one  in  the  world  to  go  to.  Do  not  send  me  away  ! " 

“ Send  away,  my  lady  lass  ! " exclaimed  the  cap- 
tain. “ You,  my  Heart's  Delight  ! Stay  a bit ! We’ll 
put  up  this  here  dead-light,  and  take  a double  turn  on 
the  key  !" 

With  these  words,  the  captain,  using  his  one  hand 
and  his  hook  with  the  greatest  dexterity  got  out  the 
shutter  of  the  door,  put  it  up,  made  it  all  fast,  and 
locked  the  door  itself. 

When  he  came  back  to  the  side  of  Florence,  she  took 
liis  hand,  and  kissed  it.  The  helplessness  of  the  action. 


392 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


fhe  appeal  it  made  to  him,  the  confidence  i t expressed, 
the  unspeakable  sorrow  in  her  face,  the  pain  of  mind 
she  had  too  plainly  suffered,  and  was  suffering  then,  his 
knowledge  of  her  past  history,  her  present  lonely,  worn, 
and  unprotected  appearance,  all  so  rushed  upon  the 
good  captain  together,  that  he  fairly  overflowed  with 
compassion  and  gentleness. 

“My  lady  lass,’’  said  the  captain,  polishing  the 
bridge  of  his  nose  with  his  arm  until  it  shone  like  bur- 
nished copper,  “ don’t  you  say  a word  to  Ed’ard  Cuttle, 
imtil  such  times  as  you  finds  yourself  a riding  smooth 
tnd  easy ; which  won’t  be  to-day,  nor  yet  to-morrow. 
And  as  to  giving  of  you  up,  or  reporting  where  you  are, 
yes  verily,  and  by  God’s  help,  so  I won’t.  Church  cate- 
chism, make  a note  on  1 ” 

This  the  captain  said,  reference  and  all,  in  one  breath, 
and  with  much  solemnity,  taking  off  his  hat  at  “ yes 
verily,”  and  putting  it  on  again,  when  he  had  quite  con- 
cluded. 

Florence  could  do  but  one  thing  more  to  thank  him, 
and  to  show  him  how  she  trusted  in  him  ; and  she  did 
j1t.  Clinging  to  this  rough  creature  as  the  last  asylum 
of  her  bleeding  heart,  she  laid  her  head  upon  his  honest 
shoulder,  and  clasped  him  round  his  neck,  and  would 
have  kneeled  down  to  bless  him,  but  that  he  divined 
her  purpose,  and  held  her  up  like  a true  man. 

“ Steady  I ” said  the  captain.  **  Steady ! You^re  too 
weak  to  stand,  you  see,  my  pretty,  and  must  lie  down 
here  again.  There,  there  I ” To  see  the  captain  lift  her 
on  the  sofa,  and  cover  her  vith  his  coat,  would  have 
been 'worth  a hundred  state  sights.  “And  now,”  said 
the  captain,  “ you  must  take  some  breakfast,  lady  lass, 
and  the  dog  shall  have  some  too.  And  arter  that  you 
shall  go  aloft  to  old  Sol  Gilis’s  room,  and  fall  asleep 
Inhere,  like  a angel.” 

Captain  Cuttle  patte4  Diogenes  when  he  made  allu 
sion  to  him,  and  Diogenes  met  that  overture  graciously, 
half-way.  During  the  administration  of  the  restoratives 
he  had  clearly  been  in  two  minds  whether  to  fiy  at  the 
captain  or  to  offer  him  his  friendship  ; and  he  had  ex- 
pressed that  conflict  of  feeling  by  alternate  waggings 
of  his  tail,  and  displays  of  his  teeth,  with  now  and  then 
a growl  or  so.  But  by  this  time  his  doubts  were  all  re- 
moved. It  was  plain  that  he  considered  the  captain  one 
of  the  most  amiable  of  men,  and  a man  whom  it  was  an 
honour  to  a dog  to  know. 

In  evidence  of  these  convictions,  Diogenes  attended 
on  the  captain  while  he  made  some  tea  and  toast,  and 
showed  a lively  interest  in  his  housekeeping.  But  H 
was  in  vain  for  the  kind  captain  to  make  such  prepara- 
tions for  Florence,  who  sorely  tried  to  do  some  honour 


DOMBET  AND  SON. 


393 


to  them,  but  could  touch  nothing,  and  could  only  weep 
and  weep  again. 

‘‘Well,  well  1 said  the  compassionate  captain, 
“ arter  turning  in,  my  Heart's  Delight,  you'll  get  more 
way  upon  you.  Now,  I’ll  serve  out  your  allowance,  my 
lad.”  To  Diogenes.  “And  you  shall  keep  guard  on 
your  mistress  aloft."” 

Diogenes,  however,  although  he  had  been  eyeing  his 
intended  breakfast  with  a watering  mouth  and  glisten- 
ing eyes,  instead  of  falling  to,  ravenously,  when  it  was 
put  before  him,  pricked  up  his  ears,  darted  to  the  shop- 
door,  and  barked  there  furiously  : burrowing  with  his 
head  at  the  bottom,  as  if  he  v/ere  bent  on  mining  his 
way  out. 

“Can  there  be  anybody  there  ! ” asked  Florence,  in 
alarm. 

“ No,  my  lady  lass,”  returned  the  captain.  “ Who’d 
stay  there,  without  making  any  noise  I Keep  up  a good 
heart,  pretty.  It’s  only  people  going  by.” 

But  for  all  that,  Diogenes  barked  and  barked,  and 
burrowed  and  burrowed  with  pertinacious  fury  ; and 
whenever  he  stopped  to.listen,  appeared  to  receive  some 
new  conviction  into  his  mind,  for  he  set  to,  harking  and 
burrowing  again,  a dozen  times.  Even  when  he  was 
persuaded  to  return  to  his  breakfast,  he  came  jogging 
back  to  it,  with  a very  doubtful  air  ; and  was  oK  again, 
in  another  paroxysm,  before  touching  a morsel. 

“If  there  should  be  some  one  listening  and  watching,” 
whispered  Florence.  “ Some  one  who  saw  me  come — 
wko  followed  me,  perhaps,” 

“ It  ain’t  the  young  woman,  lady  lass,  is  it  ? ” said  the 
captain,  taken  with  a bright  idea. 

“Susan?”  said  Florence,  shaking  her  head.  “Ah 
no  ! Susan  has  been  gone  from  me  a long  time.” 

“Not  deserted,  I hope?”  said  the  captain.  “ Don^t 
say  that  that  there  young  woman’s  run,  my  pretty  ! ” 

“ Oh,  no,  no  ! ” cried  Florence.  “ She  is  one  of  the 
truest  hearts  in  the  world  ! ” 

The  captain  was  greatly  relieved  by  this  reply,  and 
expressed  his  satisfaction  by  taking  off  his  hard  glazed 
liat,  and  dabbing  his  head  all  over  with  his  handker- 
chief rolled  up  like  a ball  observing  several  times,  with 
infinite  complacency,  and  with  a beaming  countenance, 
that  he  know’d  it. 

“ So  you’re  quiet  now,  are  you,  brother  ? ” said  the  cap- 
tain to  Diogenes.  “ There  warn’t  nobody  there,  my  lady 
lass,  bless  you  ! ” 

Diogenes  was  not  so  sure  of  that.  The  door  still  had 
an  attraction  for  him  at  intervals  ; and  he  went  snuifing 
about  it,  and  growling  to  himself,  unable  to  forget  the 
subject.  This  incident,. coupled  with  the  captam’s  obser- 


394 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  ’DICKENS. 


vation  of  Florence's  fatigue  and  faintness,  decided  liina 
to  prepare  Sol  Gills’s  chamber  as  a place  of  retirement  for 
her  immediately.  He  therefore  hastily  betook  himself 
to  the  top  of  the  house,  and  made  the  best  arrangement 
of  it  that  his  imagination  and  his  means  suggested. 

It  was  very  clean  already ; and  the  captain,  being  an 
orderly  man,  and  accustomed  to  make  things  ship-shape, 
converted  the  bed  into  a couch,  by  covering  it  all  over 
with  a clean  white  drapery.  By  a similar  contrivance,  the 
captain  converted  the  little  dressing-table  into  a species 
of  altar,  on  which  he  set  forth  two  silver  teaspoons,  a 
flower-pot,  a telescope,  his  celebrated  watch,  a pocket- 
comb,  and  a song-book,  as  a small  collection  of  rarities,  that 
made  a choice  appearance.  Having  darkened  the  window, 
and  straightened  the  pieces  of  carpet  on  the  floor,  the 
captain  surveyed  these  preparations  with  great  delight, 
and  descended  to  the  little  parlour  again,  to  bring  Flor- 
ence to  her  bower. 

Nothing  would  induce  the  captain  to  believe  that  it 
was  possible  for  Florence  to  walk  up-stairs.  If  he  could 
have  got  the  idea  into  his  head,  he  would  have  considered 
it  an  outrageous  breach  of  hospitality  to  allow  her  to  do 
so.  Florence  was  too  weak  to  dispute  the  point,  and  the 
captain  carried  her  up  out  of  hand,  laid  her  down,  and 
covered  her  with  a great  watch  coat. 

“My  lady  lass! ’’said  the  captain,  “you’re  as  safe 
here  as  if  you  was  at  the  top  of  St.Pau  /s  Cathedral,  with 
the  ladder  cast  off.  Sleep  is  what  you  want,  afore  ail 
other  things,  and  may  you  be  able  to  show  yoursdlf 
smart  with  that  there  balsam  for  the  still  small  voice  of 
a wownded  mind  1 When  there’s  any  thing  you  want, 
my  Heart’s  Delight,  as  this  here  humble  house  or  town 
can  offer,  pass  the  word  to  Ed’ard  Cuttle,  as’ll  stand  off 
and  on  outside  that  door,  and  that  there  man  will  wibrate 
with  joy.  ” The  captain  concluded  by  kissing  the  hand  that 
Florence  stretched  out  to  him,  with  the  chivalry  of  any 
old  knight-errant, and  walking  on  tip- toe  out  of  the  rooiru 

Descending  to  the  little  parlour.  Captain  Cuttle,  after 
holding  a hasty  council  with  himself,  decided  to  open 
the  shop-door  for  a few  minutes,  and  satisfy  himself 
that  now,  at  all  events,  there  was  no  one  loitering  about 
it.  Accordingly  he  set  it  open,  and  stood  upon  the  thresh 
old,  keeping  a bright  look-out,  and  sweeping  the  whole 
street  with  his  spectacles, 

“ How  de  do.  Captain  Gills?”  said  a voice  beside  him. 
The  captain,  looking  down,  found  that  he  had  been 
boarded  by  Mr.  Toots  while  sweeping  the  horizon. 

“ How  are  you,  my  lad?”  replied  the  captain. 

“ Well,  I’m  pretty  well,  thank’ee,  Captain  Gills,”  said 
Mr.  Toots.  “ You  know  I’m  never  quite  what  I could 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


395 


Wisli  to  oe,  now.  I don’t  expect  that  I ever  shall  be  any 
more.” 

Mr.  Toots  never  approached  any  nearer  than  this  to  the 
great  theme  of  his  life,  v/hen  in  conversation  with  Cap- 
tain Cuttle,  on  account  of  the  agreement  between  them. 

‘'Captain  Gills,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  “if  I could  have 
the  pleasure  of  a word  with  you,  it’s — it’s  rather  particu- 
lar.” 

“ Why,  you  see  my  lad,”  replied  the  captain,  leading 
the  way  into  the  parlour,  “ I an’t  what  you  may  call  ex- 
actly free  this  morning  ; and  therefore  if  you  can  clap  on 
a bit,  I should  take  it  kindly.’^ 

“Certainly  Captain  Gill,”  replied  Mr.  Toots,  who  sel- 
dom had  any  notion  of  the  captain’s  meaning.  “ To  clap 
on,  is  exactly  what  I could  wish  to  do.  Naturally.” 

“If  so  be,  my  lad,”  returned  the  captain.  “ Do  it ! ” 

The  captain  was  so  impressed  by  the  possession  of  his 
tremendous  secret — by  the  fact  of  Miss  Dombey  being  at 
that  moment  under  his  roof,  while  the  innocent  and  un- 
conscious Toots  sat  opposite  to  him — that  a perspiration 
broke  out  on  his  forehead,  and  he  found  it  impossible, 
while  slowly  drying  the  same,  glazed  hat  in  hand,  to 
keep  his  eyes  off  Mr.  Toots’s  face.  Mr.  Toots,  who  him- 
self appeared  to  have  some  secret  reason  foi’  being  in  a 
nervous  state,  was  so  unspeakably  disconcerted  by  the 
captain’s  stare,  that  after  looking  at  him  vacantly  for 
some  time  in  silence,  and  shifting  uneasily  on  his  chair, 
he  said  : 

“ I beg  your  pardon.  Captain  Gills,  but  you  don’t  hap- 
pen to  see  anything  particular  in  me,  do  you  ? ” 

“ No,  my  lad,”  returned  the  captain.  “ No.  ” 

“ Because  you  know,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  with  a chuckle, 
“ I KNOW  I’m  wasting  away.  You  needn’t  at  all  mind 
alluding  to  that.  I — I should  like  it.  Burgess  & Co. 
have  altered  my  measure,  I’m  in  that  state  of  thinness. 
It’s  a gratification  to  me.  I — I am  glad  of  it.  I—l’d  a 
great  deal  rather  go  into  a decline,  if  I could.  I’m  a 
mere  brute  3/ou  know,  grazing  upon  the  surface  of  the 
earth.  Captain  Gills.” 

The  more  Mr.  Toots  went  on  in  this  way,  the  more  the 
captain  was  weighed  down  by  his  secret,  and  stared  at 
him.  What  with  this  cause  of  uneasiness,  and  his  desire 
to  get  rid  of  Mr.  Toots,  the  captain  was  in  such  a scared 
and  strange  condition,  indeed,  that  if  he  had  been  in  con- 
versation v/ith  a ghost,  he  could  hardly  have  evinced 
greater  discomposure. 

“ But  I was  going  to  say,  Captain  Gills,”  said  Mr.  Toots. 
**  Happening  to  be  this  way  early  this  morning— to  tell 
^©u  the  truth,  I was  coming  to  breakfast  with  you.  As 
lo  sleep,  you  know  I never  sleep  now.  I might  be  a 


396 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Watcliman,  except  that  I don^t  get  any  pay,  and  lie’s  got 
nothing  on  his  mind.” 

Carry  on,  my  lad  ! ” said  the  captain,  in  an  admoni 
lory  voice. 

Certainly,  Captain  Gills,”  said  Mr.  Toots.  ‘‘  Per^ 
fectly  true  ! Happening  to  be  this  way  early  this  morn. 
kig  (an  hour  or  so  ago),  and  finding  the  door  shut — ” 

What  I were  you  waiting  there,  brother  ? ” demand- 
ed the  captain. 

Not  at  all.  Captain  Gills/’  returned  Mr.  Toots.  1 
didn’t  stop  a moment.  1 thought  you  were  out.  But 
the  person  said— by  the  bye,  you  don't  keep  a dog  do 
you.  Captain  Gills  ? ” 

The  captain  shook  his  head. 

To  be  sure,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  that’s  exactly  what  1 
said.  I knew  you  didn’t.  There  is  a dog.  Captain  Gills, 
connected  with — but  excuse  me.  That’s  forbidden 
ground.” 

The  captain  stared  at  Mr.  Toots  until  he  seemed  to 
swell  to  twice  his  natural  size  ; and  again  the  perspira- 
tion broke  out  on  the  captain’s  forehead,  when  he  thought 
of  Diogenes  taking  it  into  his  head  to  come  down  and 
make  a third  in  the  parlour. 

“ The  person  said,”  continued  Mr.  Toots,  ‘‘  that  he  had 
heard  a dog  barking  in  the  shop  : which  I knew  couldn’t 
be,  and  I told  him  so.  But  he  was  as  positive  as  if  he 
had  seen  the  dog.” 

“ "What  person,' my  lad  ?”  inquired  the  captain. 

“ Why,  you  see  there  it  is.  Captain  Gills,”  said  Mr. 
Toots  with  a perceptible  increase  in  the  nervousness  of 
his  manner.  “ It’s  not  for  me  to  say  what  may  have 
taken  place,  or  what  may  not  have  taken  place.  Indeed, 
I don’t  know.  I get  mixed  up  v/ith  all  sorts  of  things 
that  1 don’t  quite  understand,  and  I think  there’s  some- 
thing rather  weak  in  my in  my  head,  in  short.” 

The  captain  nodded  his  own  as  a mark  of  assent. 

“ But  the  person  said,  as  we  were  walking  away,”  con- 
tinued Mr.  Toots,  “ that  you  knew  what,  under  existing 
circumstances,  might  occur — he  said  ‘ might,’  very  strong- 
ly— and  that  if  you  were  requested  to  prepare  yourself, 
you  wmuld,  no  doubt,  come  prepared.” 

“ Person,  my  lad  !”  the  captain  repeated. 

“I  don’t  know  what  person,  I’m  sure.  Captain  Gills.” 
replied  Mr.  Toots,  “ I haven’t  the  least  idea.  But  com- 
ing to  the  door,  I found  him  waiting  there  ; and  he  said 
was  I coming  back  again,  and  I said  yes  ; and  he  said  did 
I know  you,  and  I said,  yes,  Iliad  the  pleasure  of  your 
acquaintance — you  had  given  me  the  pleasure  of  your  ac- 
quaintance, after  some  persuasion  ; and  be  said,  if  that 
was  the  case,  would  I say  to  you  what  I ham  said,  about 
existing  circumstances  and  coming  prepared,  and  as  sooa 


jDOMBEY  and  son. 


^97 

as  ever  I saw  you.,  would  I ask  you  to  step  round  tlie  cor- 
ner, if  it  v/as  only  for  one  minute,  on  most  important 
business,  to  Mr.  Brogley’s  the  broker’s.  Now,  i tell  you 
what,  Captain  Gills — whatever  it  is,  I am  convinced  it’s 
very  important  ; and  if  you  like  to  step  round  now,  Fll 
wait  here  ’till  you  come  back.  ” 

The  captain,  divided  between  his  fear  of  compromising 
Florence  in  some  way  by  not  going,  and  his  horror  of  leav- 
ing Mr.  Toots  in  possession  of  the  house  with  a chance  of 
finding  out  the  secret,  was  a spectacle  of  mental  disturb- 
ance that  even  Mr.  Toots  could  not  be  blind  to.  But 
that  young  gentleman,  considering  his  nautical  friend  as 
merely  in  a state  of  preparation  for  the  interview  he  was 
going  to  have,  was  quite  satisfied,  and  did  not  review  his 
own  discreet  conduct  without  chuckles. 

At  length  the  captain  decided,  as  the  lesser  of  two 
evils,  to  run  round  to  Brogley’s  the  broker’s  : previously 
locking  the  door  that  communicated  with  the  upper  part 
of  the  house,  and  putting  the  key  in  his  pocket.  If  so 
be,”  said  the  captain  to  Mr.  Toots,  with  not  a little  shame 
and  hesitation,  ‘‘as  you’ll  excuse  my  doing  of  it, brother.” 

“ Captain  Gills,”  returned  Mr.  Toots,  “whatever  you 
do,  is  satisfactory  to  me.” 

The  captain  thanked  him  heartily,  and  promising  to 
come  back  in  less  than  five  minutes,  v/ent  out  in  quest 
of  the  person  who  had  intrusted  Mr.  Toots  with  this  mys- 
terious message.  Poor  Mr.  Toots,  left  to  himself,  lay 
down  upon  the  sofa,  little  thinking  who  had  reclined 
there  last,  and,  gazing  up  at  the  sky-light  and  resigning 
himself  to  visions  of  Miss  Dombey,  lost  all  heed  of  time 
and  place. 

It  v/as  as  well  that  he  did  so;  for  although  the  captain 
was  not  gone  long,  he  was  gone  much  longer  than  he 
had  proposed.  When  he  came  hack,  he  was  very  pale 
indeed,  and  greatly  agitated,  and  even  looked  as  if  he 
had  been  shedding  tears.  He  seemed  to  have  lost  the 
faculty  of  speech,  until  he  had  been  to  the  cupboard  and 
taken  a dram  of  rum  from  the  case-bottle,  when  he 
fetched  a deep  breath,  and  sat  down  in  a chair  with  his 
hand  before  his  face. 

‘'^Captain  Gills,”  said  Toots,  kindly,  “I  hope  and 
*«*ust  there’s  nothing  wrong  ? ” 

“ Tliank’ee  my  lad,  not  a bit,”  said  the  caiDtain. 
“ Quite  contrairy.” 

“You  have  the  appearance  of  being  overcome,  Cap- 
tain Gills,”  observed  Mr.  Toots. 

“ Why  my  lad,  I am  took  aback,”  the  captain  admit- 
ted. “I  am.” 

“ Is  there  anything  I can  do,  Captain  Gills?”  inquir- 
ed Mr.  Toots.  “ If  there  is  make  use  of  me.” 

The  captain  removed  hi^  hand  from  his  face,  looked 


398  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

at  him  witli  a remarkable  expression  of  pitj^  and  ten- 
derness,  and  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  shook  it 
hard. 

No  thank'ee,’’  said  the  captain.  Nothing.  Only 
I’ll  take  it  as  a favour  if  you'll  part  company  for  the  pre 
sent.  I believe,  brother,"  wringing  "his  hand  again, 

that,  after  Wal'r,  and  on  a different  model,  you're  as 
good  a lad  as  ever  stepped. " 

.Upon  my  word  and  honour  Captain  Gills,"  returned 
Mr.  Toots,  giving  the  captain's  hand  a preliminary  slap 
before  shaking  it  again,  it's  delightful  to  me  to  pos 
sess  your  good  opinion.  Thank'ee." 

And  bear  a hand  and  cheer  up,"  said  the  captain, 
patting  him  on  the  back.  “ What  I There's  more  than 
one  sweet  creetur  in  the  world  ! " 

Not  to  me,  Captain  Gills,"  replied  Mr.  Toots  grave- 
ly.  Not  to  me,  I assure  you.  The  state  of  my  feel- 
ings towards  Miss  Dombey  is  of  that  unspeakable  de- 
scription, that  my  heart  is  a desert  island,  and  she  lives 
in  it  alone.  I'm  getting  more  used  up  every  day,  and 
I'm  proud  to  be  so.  If  you  could  see  my  legs  when  I 
take  my  boots  off,  you'd  form  some  idea  of  what  unre- 
quited affection  is.  I have  been  prescribed  bark,  but  I 
don't  take  it,  for  I don't  wish  to  have  any  tone  what 
ever  given  to  my  constitution.  I’d  rather  not.  This 
however,  is  forbidden  ground.  Captain  Gills,  good 
bye  ! " 

Captain  Cuttle  cordially  reciprocating  the  warmth  of 
Mr.  Toots’s  farewell,  locked  the  door  behind  him,  and 
shaking  his  head  with  the  same  remarkable  expression  of 
pity  and  tenderness  as  he  had  regarded  him  with  before, 
went  up  to  see  if  Florence  wanted  him. 

There  was  an  entire  change  in  the  captain's  face  as  he 
went  upstairs.  He  wiped  his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief, 
and  he  polished  the  bridge  of  his  nose  with  his  sleeve  as 
he  had  done  already  that  morning,  but  his  face  was  ab- 
solutely changed.  Now  he  might  have  been  thought 
supremely  happy  ; now,  he  might  have  been  thought 
sad  ; but  the  kind  of  gravity  that  sat  upon  his  features* 
was  quite  new  to  them,  and  was  as  great  an  improvement 
to  them  as  if  they  had  undergone  some  sublimating  pro- 
cess. 

He  knocked  softly,  with  his  hook,  at  Florence's  door, 
twice  or  thrice  ; but,  receiving  no  answer,  ventured  first 
to  peep  in,  and  then  to  enter:  emboldened  to  take  the 
latter  step,  perhaps,  by  the  familiar  recognition  of 
Diogenes,  who,  stretched  upon  the  ground  by  the  side  of 
her  couch,  wagged  his  tail,  and  winked  his  eyes  at 
the  captain,  without  being  at  the  trouble  of  getting 
up. 

She  was  sleeping  heavily,  and  moaning  in  her  sleep 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


399 


and  Captain  Cuttle,  witli  a perfect  awe  of  her  youth  and 
beauty,  and  her  sorrow,  raised  her  head,  and  adjusted 
the  coat  that  covered  her,  where  it  had  fallen  olf,  and 
darkened  the  window  a little  more  that  she  might 
sleep  on,  and  crept  out  again,  and  took  his  post  Oi.  watch 
upon  the  stairs.  All  this,  with  a touch  and  tread  as 
light  as  Florence's  own. 

Long  may  it  remain  in  this  mixed  world  a point  not 
®asy  of  decision,  which  is  the  more  beautiful  evidence 
of  the  Almighty’s  goodness — the  delicate  fingers  that  are 
formed  for  sensitiveness  and  sympathy  of  touch,  and 
made  to  minister  to  pain  and  grief,  or  the  rough  hard 
Captain  Cuttle  hand,  that  the  heart  teaches,  guides,  and 
softens  in  a moment  1 

P'lorence  slept  upon  her  couch,  forgetful  of  her 
homelessness  and  orphanage,  and  Captain  Cuttle  watched 
upon  the  stairs.  A louder  sob  or  moan  than  usual 
brought  him  sometimes  to  her  door  ; but  by  degrees  she 
slept  more  peacefully,  and  the  captain’s  watch  was  un- 
disturbed. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

The  Midshipman  makes  a Discovery. 

It  was  long  before  Florence  awoke.  The  day  was  in 
its  prime,  the  day  was  in  its  wane,  and  still,  uneasy  in 
mind  and  body,  she  slept  on  ; unconscious  of  her  strange 
bed,  of  the  noise  and  turmoil  in  the  street,  and  of  the 
light  that  shone  outside  the  shaded  window.  Perfect 
unconsciousness  of  what  had  happened  in  the  home 
that  existed  no  more,  even  the  deep  slumber  of  exhaust- 
ion could  not  produce.  Some  undefined  and  mournful 
recollection  of  it,  dozing  uneasily  but  never  sleeping, 
pervaded  all  her  rest.  A dull  sorrow,  like  a half -lulled 
sense  of  pain,  was  always  present  to  her  ; and  her  pale 
cheek  was  oftener  wet  with  tears  than  the  honest  cap- 
tain, softly  putting  in  his  head  from  time  to  time  at  the 
half -closed  door,  could  have  desired  to  see  it. 

The  sun  was  getting  low  in  the  west,  and,  glancing 
out  of  a red  mist,  pierced  with  its  rays  opposite  loop- 
holes and  pieces  of  fret-work  in  the  spires  of  the  city 
churches,  as  if  with  golden  arrows  that  struck  through 
and  through  them — and  far  away  athwart  the  river  and 
its  flat  banks,  it  was  gleaming  like  a path  of  fire— and 
out  at  sea  it  was  irradiating  sails  of  ships — and,  looked 
towards,  from  quiet  churchyards,  upon  hill-tops  in  the 
country,  it  v/as  steeping  distant  prospects  in  a flush  and 
glow  that  seemed  to  mingle  earth  and  sky  together  in 
one  glorious  suffusion — when  Florence,  opening  her 
heavy  eyes,  lay  at  first,  looking  without  interest  or  re^ 


400 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


cognition  at  tlie  unfamiliar  v/alls  around  her,  and  listen- 
ing in  the  same  regardless  manner  to  the  noises  in  the 
street.  But  presently  she  started  up  upon  her  couch, 
gazed  round  with  a surprised  and  vacant  look,  and  re- 
collected all. 

‘‘  My  pretty,’*  said  the  captain,  knocking  at  the  door, 
“ what  cheer  ! ” 

Dear  friend,”  cried  Florence,  hurrying  to  him,  is 
it  you  ? ” 

The  captain  felt  so  much  pride  in  the  name,  and  was 
so  pleased  by  the  gleam  of  pleasure  in  her  face  when  she 
saw  him,  that  he  kissed  his  hook,  by  way  of  reply,  in 
speechless  gratification. 

What  cheer,  bright  di’mond  ! ” said  the  captain. 

I have  surely  slept  very  long,”  returned  Florence. 

When  did  I come  here  ? Yesterday  ? ” 

This  here  blessed  day,  my  lady  lass,”  replied  the 
captain. 

Has  there  been  no  night?  Is  it  still  day  ?”  asked 
Florence. 

Getting  on  for  evening  now,  my  pretty,”  said  the 
captain,  drawing  back  the  curtain  of  the  window. 

See  I ” 

Florence,  "with  her  hand  upon  the  captain’s  arm,  so 
sorrowful  and  timid,  and  the  captain  with  his  rough  face 
and  burly  figure,  so  quietly  protective  of  her,  stood  in 
the  rosy  light  of  the  bright  evening  sky,  without  saying 
a word.  However  strange  the  form  of  speech  into  which 
he  might  have  fashioned  the  feeling,  if  he  Lad  had  to 
give  it  utterance,  the  captain  felt,  as  sensibly  as  the 
most  eloquent  of  men  could  have  done,  that  there  was 
something  in  the  tranquil  time  and  in  its  softened 
beauty  that  would  make  the  wounded  heart  of  Florence 
overflow  ; and  that  it  was  better  that  such  tears  should 
have  their  way.  So  not  a word  spake  Captain  Cuttle. 
But  when  he  felt  his  arm  clasped  closer,  and  when  he 
felt  tlie  lonely  head  come  nearer  to  it,  and  lay  itself 
against  his  homely  coarse  blue  sleeve,  he  pressed  it 
gently  with  his  rugged  hand,  and  understood  it,  and  was 
understood. 

Better  now,  my  pretty  ! ” said  the  captain.  Cheer- 
ily, cheerily  ; I’ll  go  down  below,  and  get  sorne  dinner 
ready.  Will  you  come  down  of  your  own  self,  arter- 
wards,  pretty,  or  shall  Ed’ard  Cuttle  come  and  fetch 
you?” 

As  Florence  assured  him  that  she  was  quite  able  to 
walk  down-stairs,  the  captain,  though  evidently  doubt- 
ful of  his  own  hospitality  in  permitting  it,  left  her  to  do 
so,  and  immediately  set  about  roasting  a fowl  at  the  fire 
in  the  little  parlour.  To  achieve  his  cookery  with  the 
greater  skill,  he  pulled  off  his  coat,  tucked  up  his  wrist- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON: 


401 


bands  and  put  on  his  glazed  hat,  without  which  assist' 
ant  he  never  applied  himself  to  any  nice  or  difficult 
undertaking. 

Alter  cooling  her  aching  head  and  burning  face  in  the 
fresh  water  which  the  captain’s  care  had  provided  for 
her  while  she  slept,  Florence  went  to  the  little  mirror  to 
bind  up  her  disordered  hair.  Then  she  knew — ^in  a 
moment,  for  she  shunned  it  instantly — that  on  her  breast 
there  was  the  darkening  mark  of  an  angry  hand. 

Her  tears  burst  forth  afresh  at  the  sight ; she  was 
ashamed  and  afraid  of  it  ; but  it  moved  her  to  no  anger 
against  him.  Homeless  and  fatherless,  she  forgave  him 
everything  ; hardly  thought  that  she  had  need  to  forgive 
him,  or  that  she  did  ; but  she  fled  from  the  idea  of  him 
as  she  had  fled  from  the  reality,  and  he  was  utterly  gone 
and  lost.  There  was  no  such  Being  in  the  world. 

What  to  do,  or  where  to  live,  Morence — poor,  inex- 
perienced girl ! — could  not  yet  consider.  She  had  indis- 
tinct dreams  of  finding,  a long  way  off,  some  little  sis- 
ters to  instruct,  who  would  be  gentle  with  her,  and  to 
whom,  under  some  feigned  name,  she  might  attach  her- 
self, and  who  would  grow  up  in  their  happy  home,  and 
marry,  and  be  good  to  the  old  governess,  and  perhaps 
intrust  her,  in  time,  with  the  education  of  their  own 
daughters.  And  she  thought  how  strange  and  sorrow- 
ful it  Avould  be,  thus  to  become  a grey-haired  woman, 
carrying  her  secret  to  the  grave,  when  Florence  Dombey 
was  forgotten.  But  it  was  all  dim  and  clouded  to  her 
now.  She  only  knew  that  she  had  no  father  upon 
earth,  and  she  said  so,  many  times,  with  her  suppliant 
head  hidden  from  all,  but  her  Father  who  was  in 
Heaven. 

Her  little  stock  of  money  amounted  to  but  a few 
guineas.  With  a part  of  this,  it  would  be  necessary  to 
buy  some  clothes,  for  she  had  none  but  those  she  wore. 
She  was  too  desolate  to  think  how  soon  her  money  would 
be  gone — too  much  a child  in  worldly  matters  to  be 
greatly  troubled  on  that  score  yet,  even  if  her  other 
trouble  had  been  less.  She  tried  to  calm  her  thoughts 
and  stay  her  tears  ; to  quiet  the  hurry  in  her  throbbing 
head,  and  bring  herself  to  believe  that  what  had  hap- 
pened were  but  the  events  of  a few  hours  ago,  instead 
of  weeks  or  months,  as  they  appeared  ; and  went  down 
to  her  kind  protector. 

The  captain  had  spread  the  cloth  with  great  care,  and 
was  making  some  egg-sauce  in  a little  saucepan  ; basi^ 
ing  the  fowl  from  time  to  time  during  the  process  with 
a strong  interest,  as  it  turned  and  browned  on  a string 
before  the  fire.  Having  propped  Florence  up  with 
cushions  on  a sofa,  which  was  already  wheeled  into  a 
warm  corner  for  her  greater  comfort,  the  captain  pur- 


m 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


sued  Ms  cooking  witli  extraordinary  skill,  making  liof 
gravy  in  a second  little  saucepan,  boiling  a handful  of 
potatoes  in  a third,  never  forgetting  the  egg-sauce  in 
the  first,  and  making  an  impartial  round  of  basting  and 
stirring  with  the  most  useful  of  spoons  every  minute 
Besides  these  cares,  the  captain  had  to  keep  his  eye  on 
a diminutive  frying-pan,  in  which  some  sausages  were 
hissing  and  bubbling  in  a most  musical  manner  ; and 
there  was  never  such  a radiant  cook  as  the  captain 
looked  in  the  height  and  heat  of  these  functions  r it 
being  impossible  to  say  whether  his  face  or  his  glazed 
hat  shone  the  brighter. 

The  dinner  being  at  length  quite  ready.  Captain  Cut- 
tie  dished  and  served  it  up  with  no  less  dexterity  than 
he  had  cooked  it.  He  then  dressed  for  dinner,  by  tak 
ing  olf  his  glazed  hat  and  putting  on  his  coat.  That 
done,  he  wheeled  the  table  close  against  Florence  on  the 
sofa,  said  grace,  unscrewed  his  hook,  screwed  his  fork 
into  its  place,  and  did  the  honours  of  the  table. 

My  lady  lass,”  said  the  captain,  cheer  up,  and  try 
to  eat  a deal.  Stand  by,  my  deary  ! Liver  wing  it  is. 
garse  it  is.  Sassage  it  is.  And  potato  I ” all  wliich  the 
captain  ranged  symmetrically  on  a plate,  and,  pouring 
hot  gravy  on  the  whole  with  the  useful  spoon,  set  be 
fore  his  cherished  guest. 

The  whole  row  ’o  dead,  lights  is  up,  forward,  lady 
lass,”  observed  the  captain,  encouragingly,  ‘‘  and  every 
fchink  is  made  snug.  Try  and  pick  a bit,  my  pretty.  If 
Vfakr  was  here—*” 

“Ah!  If  I had  him  for  my  brother  now!”  cried 
Florence. 

“Don’t  f don’t  take  on,  my  pretty  said  the  captain, 
“ awast  to  oble^e  me  I He  was  your  natural  born  friend 
like,  warn’t  he  Fet  ? ” 

Florence  had  no  words  to  answer  with.  She  only  said, 
“ Oh  dear,  dear  Paul  I oh  Walter  I ” 

“The  wery  planks  she  walked  on,”  murmured  the 
captain,  looking  at  her  drooping  face,  ‘ ‘ was  as  high  es- 
teemed by  Wal’r,  as  the  water  brooks  is  by  the  hart 
which  never  rejices  I I see  him  now,  the  wery  day  as  he 
was  rated  on  them  Dombey  books,  a speaking  of  her 
with  his  face  a glistening  with  doo — leastways  with  his 
modest  sentiments — like  a new  Mowed  rose,  at  dinner. 
Well,  well  I If  our  poor  WaTr  was  here,  my  lady  lass 
— or  if  he  could  be — for  he’s  drowned,  an’t  he  ! ” 

Florence  shook  her  head. 

“ Yes,  yes  ; drownded,”  said  the  captain,  soothingly  ; 
“ as  I was  saying,  if  he  could  be  here  he’d  beg  and  pray 
of  you,  my  precious,  to  pick  a leetle  bit,  with  a look-out 
for  your  own  sweet  health.  Whereby,  hold  your  own, 
my  lady  lass,  as  if  it  was  for  Wal’r’s  sake,  and  lay  youi 
pretty  head  to  the  wind.  ” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


408 


Florence  essayed  to  eat  a morsel,  for  tlie  captain’s 
pleasure.  The  captain,  meanwhile,  who  seemed  to  have 
quite  forgotten  his  own  dinner,  laid  down  his  knife  and 
^ork,  and  drew  his  chair  to  the  sofa. 

Wal’r  was  a trim  lad,  warn’t  he,  precious*! ” said  the 
captain,  after  sitting  for  some  time  silently  rubbing  his 
chin,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  “ and  a brave  lad, 
and  a good  lad  ? ” 

Florence  tearfully  assented. 

**  And  he’s  drownded,  Beauty,  an’t  he  ? said  the  cap- 
tain, in  a soothing  voice. 

Florence  could  not  but  assent  again. 

He  was  older  than  you,  my  lady  lass”  pursued  the 
captain,  **  but  you  v/as  like  two  children  together,  at 
first ; warn’t  you  ? ” 

Florence  answered  ‘'Yes.” 

“AndWalVs  drownded,”  said  the  captain.  "An’t 
he?” 

The  repetition  of  this  inquiry  w^as  a curious  source  of 
consolation,  but  it  seemed  to  be  one  to  Captain  Cuttle, 
for  he  came  back  to  it  again  and  again.  Florence,  fain 
to  push  from  her  her  untasted  dinner,  and  to  lie  back  on 
her  sofa,  gave  him  her  hand,  feeling  that  she  had  disap- 
pointed him,  though  truly  wishing  to  have  pleased  him 
after  all  his  trouble,  but  he  held  it  in  his  ow^n  (which 
shook  as  he  held  it),  and,  appearing  to  have  quite  for- 
gotten all  about  the  dinner  and  her  want  of  appetite, 
went  on  growling  at  intervals,  in  a ruminating  tone  of 
sympathy,  " Poor  Wal’r.  Ay,  ay  ! Drownded.  An’t 
he  ? ” And  always  waited  for  her  answer,  in  which  the 
great  point  of  these  singular  reflections  appeared  to 
consist. 

The  fowl  and  sausages  were  cold,  and  the  gravy  and 
the  egg-sauce  stagnant,  before  the  captain  remembered 
that  they  were  on  the  board,  and  fell  to  with  the  assist- 
ance of'  Diogenes,  whose  united  efforts  quickly  de- 
spatched the  banquet.  The  captain’s  delight  and  wonder 
at  the  quiet  housewdfery  of  Florence  in  assisting  to  clear 
the  table,  arrange  the  parlour,  and  sweep  up  the  hearth 
— only  to  be  equalled  by  the  fervency  of  his  protest  when 
she  began  to  assist,  him— were  gradually  raised  to  that 
degree,  that  at  last  he  could  not  choose  but  do  nothing 
himself,  and  stand  looking  at  her  as  if  she  were  some 
Fairy,  daintily  performing  these  offices  for  him  ; the  red 
rim  on  his  forehead  glowing  again,  in  his  unspeakable 
admiration. 

But  when  Florence,  taking  down  his  pipe  from  the 
mantel-shelf  gave  it  into  his  hand,  and  entreated  him  to 
smoke  it,  the  good  captain  w^as  so  bewildered  by  her  at- 
tention, that  he  held  it  as  if  he  had  never  held  a pipe  in 
all  his  life.  Likewise,  when  Florence,  looking  into  tLs 


404 


WOHKS  OF  CHASLES  DICKEN^: 


little  cupboard,  took  out  tlie  case-bottle  and  mixed  a 
perfect  glass  of  grog  for  him,  unasked,  and  set  it  at  his 
elbow,  his  ruddy  nose  turned  pale,  he  felt  himself  so 
graced  and  honoured.  When  he  had  filled  his  pipe  in  an 
absolute  reverie  of  satisfaction,  Florence  lighted  it  for 
him — the  captain  having  no  power  to  object,  or  to  prevent 
her — and  resuming  her  place  on  the  old  sofa,  looked  at 
him  with  a smile,  so  loving  and  so  grateful,  a smile  that 
showed  him  so  plainly  how  her  forlorn  heart  turned  to 
him,  as  her  face  did,  through  grief,  that  the  smoke  of  tha 
pipe  got  into  the  captain’s  throat  and  made  him  cougli, 
and  got  into  the  captain’s  eyes,  and  made  them  blink 
and  water. 

The  manner  in  which  the  captain  tried  to  make  believe 
that  the  cause  of  these  effects  lay  hidden  in  the  pipe  it  - 
self, and  the  way  in  which  he  looked  into  the  bowl  for 
it,  and  not  finding  it  there,  pretended  to  blow  it  out  of 
the  stem,  was  wonderfully  pleasant.  The  pipe  soon  get 
ting  into  better  condition,  he  fell  into  that  state  of  re^ 
pose  becoming  a good  smoker  ; but  sat  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  Florence,  and  with  a beaming  placidity  not  to 
be  described,  and  stopping  every  now  and  then  to  dis- 
charge a little  cloud  from  his  lips,  slowly  puffed  it  forth, 
as  if  it  were  a scroll  coming  out  of  his  mouth,  bearing  the 
legend  “ Poor  Wafr,  ay,  ay.  Drowned  an’t  he  ? ” after 
which  he  would  resume  his  smoking  with  infinite  gen 
tleness. 

Unlike  as  they  were  externally  — and  there  could 
scarcely  be  a more  decided  contrast  than  between  Flor- 
ence in  her  delicate  youth  and  beauty,  and  Captain  Cut 
tie  with  his  knobby  face,  his  great  broad  w^eather-beateii 
person,  and  his  gruff  voice — in  simple  innocence  of  the 
world’s  ways  and  the  world’s  perplexities  and  dangers, 
they  were  nearly  on  a level.  No  child  could  have  sur. 
passed  Captain  Cuttle  in  inexperience  of  everything  but 
wind  and  weather  ; in  simplicity,  credulity,  and  generous 
trustfulness.  Faith,  hope,  and  charity,  shared  his  whole 
nature  among  them.  An  odd  sort  of  romance,  perfectly 
unimaginative,  yet  perfectly  unreal,  and  subject  to  no 
considerations  of  worldly  prudence  or  practicability,  was 
the  only  partner  they  had  in  his  character.  As  the  cap- 
tain sat,  and  smoked,  and  looked  at  Florence,  God  knows 
what  impossible  pictures,  in  which  she  was  the  principal 
figure,  presented  themselves  to  his  mind.  Equally  vague 
and  uncertain,  though  not  so  sanguine,  were  her  own 
thoughts  of  the  life  before  her,  and  even  as  her  tears 
made  prismatic  colours  in  the  light  she  gazed  at,  so 
through  her  new  and  lieavy  grief,  she  already  saw  a rain 
bow  faintly  shining  in  the  far-off  sky.  A wandering 
princess  and  a good  monster  in  a story-book  might  have 
by  the  fireside,  and  talked  as  Captain  Cattle  and  poo^’ 


WHEN  HE  HAD  FILLED  HIS  PIPE  IN  AN  ABSOLUTE  REYEillB 
OF  SATISFACTION,  FLORENCE  LIGHTED  IT  FOR  HIM. 

— Domloey  and  Son,  Vol.  Twelve,  page  405. 


406 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Florence  tliouglit — and  not  have  looked  very  much  un- 
like them. 

The  captain  was  not  troubled  with  the  faintest  idea  of 
any  difficulty  in  retaining  Florence,  or  of  any  responsi- 
bility thereby  incurred.  Having  put  up  the  shutters  and 
locked  the  door,  he  was  quite  satisfied  on  this  head.  If 
she  had  been  a Ward  in  Chancery,  it  would  have  made 
ho  di:fference  at  all  to  Captain  Cuttle.  He  was  the  last 
man  in  the  world  to  be  troubled  by  any  such  considera- 
tions. 

So  the  captain  smoked  his  pipe  very  comfortably,  and 
Florence  and  he  meditated  after  their  own  manner. 
When  the  pipe  was  out,  they  had  some  tea  ; and  then 
Florence  entreated  him  to  take  her  to  some  neighbouring 
shop,  where  she  could  buy  the  few  necessaries  she  im- 
mediately wanted.  It  being  quite  dark,  the  captain  con- 
sented : peeping  carefully  out  first,  as  he  had  been  wont 
to  do  in  his  time  of  hiding  from  Mrs.  MacStinger  : and 
arming  himself  with  his  large  stick,  in  case  of  an  appeal 
to  arms  being  rendered  necessary  by  any  unforseen  cir- 
cumstance. 

The  pride  Captain  Cuttle  had,  in  giving  his  arm  to 
Florence,  and  escorting  her  some  two  or  three  hundred 
yards,  keeping  a bright  look-out  all  the  time,  and  at- 
tracting the  attention  of  every  one  who  passed  them,  by 
his  great  vigilance  and  numerous  precautions,  was  ex- 
treme. Arrived  at  the  shop,  the  captain  felt  it  a point 
of  delicacy  to  retire  during  the  making  of  the  purchases, 
as  they  were  to  consist  of  wearing  apparel  ; but  he  pre- 
viously deposited  his  tin  canister  on  the  counter,  and 
informing  the  young  lady  of  the  establishment  that  it 
contained  fourteen  pound  two,  requested  her,  in  case 
that  amount  of  property  should  not  be  sufficient  to  defray 
the  expenses  of  his  niece’s  little  outfit — at  the  word 

niece,”  he  bestowed  a most  significant  look  on  Flor- 
ence, accompanied  with  pantomime,  expressive  of  sa- 
gacity and  mystery — to  have  the  goodness  to  “sing  out,” 
and  he  would  make  up  the  difference  from  his  pocket. 
Casually  consulting  his  big  watch,  as  a deep  means  of 
dazzling  the  establishment,  and  impressing  it  with  a 
sense  of  property,  the  captain  then  kissed  his  hook  to  his 
niece,  and  retired  outside  the  window,  where  it  was  a 
choice  sight  to  see  his  great  face  looking  in  from  time  to 
time,  among  the  silks  and  ribbons,  v^^ith  an  obvious  mis- 
giving that  Florence  had  been  spirited  away  by  a back 
door. 

“ Dear  Captain  Cuttle,”  said  Florence,  when  she  came 
out  with  a parcel,  the  size  of  which  greatly  disappoint- 
ed the  captain,  who  had  expected  to  see  a porter  follow- 
ing with  a bale  of  goods,  “ I don’t  want  this  money,  in- 
deed. I have  not  spent  any  of  it.  I have  money  of  my 
own.” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


407 


^‘My  lady  lass,”  returned  tlie  baffled  captain,  looking 
straight  down  the  street  before  them,  ‘ ‘ take  care  on  it 
for  me,  will  you  be  so  good,  till  such  time  as  I ask  ye 
for  it?'" 

“ May  I put  it  back  in  its  usual  place,”  said  Florence, 
‘‘  and  keep  it  there?"" 

The  captain  was  not  at  all  gratified  by  this  proposal, 
but  he  answered,  Ay,  ay,  put  it  anywheres,  my  lady 
lass,  so  long  as  you  know  where  to  find  it  again.  It 
an’t  o’  no  use  to  me/*  said  the  captain.  wonder  I 
haven’t  chucked  it  away  afore  now^"" 

The  captain  was  quite  disheartened  for  the  moment,  but 
he  revived  at  the  first  touch  of  Florence’s  arm,  and  they 
returned  with  the  same  precautions  as  they  had  come 
the  captain  opening  the  door  of  the  little  midshipman’s 
berth,  and  diving  in,  with  a suddenness  which  his  great 
practice  only  could  have  taught  him.  During  Florence’s 
slumber  in  th  e morning,  he  had  engaged  the  daughter  of 
an  elderly  lady,  who  usually  sat  under  a blue  umbrella 
in  Leadenhall-market,  selling  poultry,  to  come  and  put 
her  room  in  order,  and  render  her  any  little  services 
she  required  ; and  this  damsel  now  appearing,  Florence 
found  everything  about  her  as  convenient  and  orderly, 
if  not  as  handsome,  as  in  the  terrible  dream  she  had  once 
called  Home. 

When  they  were  alone  again,  the  captain  insisted  on 
her  eating  a slice  of  dry  toast,  and  drinking  a glass  of 
spiced  negus  (which  he  made  to  perfection) ; and,  encour- 
aging her  with  every  kind  word  and  inconsequential  quo- 
tation he  could  possibly  think  of,  led  her  up-stairs  to  her 
bedroom.  But  he  too  had  something  on  his  mind,  and 
was  not  easy  in  his  manner. 

‘‘Good  night,  dear  heart,""  said  Captain  Cuttle  to  her 
at  her  chamber- door. 

Florence  raised  her  lips  to  his  face,  and  kissed  him. 

At  any  other  time  the  captain  would  have  been  over- 
balanced by  such  a token  of  her  affection  and  gratitude  ; 
but  now,  although  he  was  very  sensible  of  it,  he  looked 
in  her  face  with  even  more  uneasiness  than  he  had  testi- 
fied before,  and  seemed  unwilling  to  leave  her. 

PooV  Wal’r  !""  said  the  captain. 

Poor,  poor  "Walter  ! ” sighed  Florence. 

Drowmded,  an’t  he  ?""  said  the  captain. 

Florence  shook  her  head  and  sighed. 

Good  night,  my  lady  lass  I ” said  Captain  Cuttle, 
putting  out  his  hand. 

“ God  bless  you,  dear,  kind  friend  I "" 

But  the  captain  lingered  still. 

Is  anything  the  matter,  dear  Captain  Cuttle  ?""  said 
Florence,  easily  alarmed  in  her  then  state  of  mind. 
“ Have  you  anything  to  tell  me  I "’ 


408 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


To  tell  you,  lady  lass  ! ” replied  the  captain,  meet- 
ing her  eyes  in  confusion.  ‘'No,  no  ; what  should  1 
have  to  tell  you,  pretty  ! You  don’t  expect  as  I’ve  got 
anything  good  to  tell  you,  sure  ? ” 

No  1 ” said  Florence,  shaking  her  head. 

The  captain  looked  at  her  wistfully,  and  repeated 
'‘No,” — still  lingering  and  still  showing  embarrass- 
ment. 

“ Poor  Wahr  ! ” said  tlie  captain.  “ My  Wal’r,  as  I used 
to  call  you  ! Old  Sol  Gills’s  nevy  ! Welcomed  to  all  as 
knowed  you,  as  the  liowers  in  May  ! Where  are  you 
got  to,  brave  boy  I Brownded,  an’t  he  ? ” 

Concluding  his  apostrophe  with  this  abrupt  ap^jeal  to 
Florence,  the  captain  bade  her  good  night,  and  descended 
the  stairs,  while  Florence  remained  at  the  top,  holding 
the  candle  out  to  light  him  down.  He  was  lost  in  the 
obscurity,  and,  judging,  from  the  sound  of  his  receding- 
footsteps,  was  in  the  act  of  turning  into  the  little  par- 
lour, when  his  head  and  shoulders  unexpectedly  emerged 
again,  as  from  the  deep,  apparently  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  repeat,  “ Drownded,  an’t  he,  pretty?”  Fo? 
when  he  had  said  that  in  a tone  of  tender  condolence,  he 
disappeared. 

Florence  was  very  sorry  that  she  should  unwittingly, 
though  naturally,  have  aw^akened  those  associations  in 
one  mind  of  her  protector,  by  taking  refuge  there  ; and 
sitting  down  before  the  little  table  where  the  captain  had 
arranged  the  telescope  and  song-book,  and  those  other 
rarities,  thought  of  Walter,  and  of  all  that  was  con 
nected  with  him  in  the  past,  until  she  could  have  almost 
wished  to  lie  down  on  her  bed  and  fade  away.  But  in 
her  lonely  yearning  to  the  dead  whom  she  had  loved,  no 
thought  of  home-— no  possibility  of  going  back— no  pre- 
sentation of  it  as  yet  existing,  or  as  sheltering  her  father 
—once  entered  her  thoughts.  She  had  seen  the  murder 
done.  In  the  last  lingering  natural  aspect  in  which  she 
had  cherished  him  through  so  much,  he  had  been  torn 
out  of  her  heart,  defaced,  and  slain.  The  thought  of  it 
was  so  appalling  to  her,  tliat  she  covered  her  eyes,  and 
shrunk  trembling  from  the  least  remembrance  of  tlie 
deed,  or  of  the  cruel  hand  that  did  it.  If  her  fond  heart, 
could  have  held  his  image  after  that,  it  must  have 
broken  ; but  it  could  not  ; and  the  void  was  filled  w-ith  a 
wild  dread,  tliat  fled  from  all  confronting  with  its  shat- 
tered fragments — with  such  a dread  as  could  have 
risen  out  of  nothing  hut  the  depths  of  such  a love,  so 
wronged. 

She  dared  not  look  into  the  glass  ; for  the  sight  of 
the  darkening  mark  upon  her  bosom  made  lier  afraid  of 
herself,  as  if  she  bore  about  her  something  wicked.  She 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


409 


covered  it  up,  with  a liasty,  faltering  "hand,  and  in  tlie 
dark  ; and  laid  her  weary  head  down,  weeping. 

The  captain  did  not  go  to  bed  for  a long  time.  He 
walked  to  and  fro  in  the  shop,  and  in  the  little  parlour, 
for  a full  hour,  and,  appearing  to  have  composed  him- 
self by  that  exercise,  sat  down  with  a grave  and 
thoughtful  face,  and  read  out  of  a Prayer-book  the 
forms  of  prayer  appointed  to  be  used  at  sea.  These 
were  not  easily  disposed  of  ; the  good  captain  being  a 
mighty  slow,  grulf  reader,  and  frequently  stopping  at  a 
hard  word  to  give  himself  such  encouragement  as  Now, 
my  lad  ! With  a will  ! or,  Steady,  Ed'ard  Cuttle, 
steady  ! ” which  had  a great  effect  in  helping  him  out  of 
any  difficulty.  Moreover,  his  spectacles  greatly  inter- 
fered with  his  powers  of  vision.  But  notwithstanding 
these  drawbacks,  the  captain,  being  heartily  in  earnest, 
read  the  service  to  the  very  last  line,  and  with  genuine 
feeling  too  ; and  approving  of  it  very  much  when  he  had 
done,  turned  in  under  the  counter  (but  not  before  he 
had  been  up-stairs,  and  listened  at  Florence’s  door),  with 
a serene  breast,  and  a most  benevolence  visage. 

The  captain  turned  out  several  times  in  the  course  of 
the  night,  to  assure  himself  that  his  charge  was  resting 
quietly  ; and  once,  at  daybreak,  found  that  she  was 
awake  : for  she  called  to  know  if  it  were  he,  on  hearing 
footsteps  near  her  door. 

Yes,  my  lady  lass,”  replied  the  captain,  in  a growl- 
ing whisper.  “ Are  you  all  right,  di’inond?” 

Florence  thanked  him,  and  said  Yes.” 

The  captain  could  not  lose  so  favourable  an  oppor- 
tunity of  applying  his  mouth  to  the  keyhole,  and  calling 
through  it,  like  a hoarse  breeze,  '‘Poor  WaTr  I Drown- 
ded,  an’t  he  ? ” After  which  he  withdrew,  and  turning 
in  again,  slept  till  seven  o’clock. 

Nor  was  he  free  from  his  uneasy  and  embarrassed 
manner  all  that  day  ; though  Florence,  being  busy  with 
her  needle  in  the  little  parlour,  was  more  calm  and  tran- 
quil than  she  had  been  on  the  day  preceding.  Almost 
always  when  she  raised  her  eyes  from  her  work,  she  ob- 
served the  captain  looking  at  her,  and  thoughtfully 
stroking  his  chin  ; and  he  so  often  hitched  his  arm-chair 
close  to  her,  as  if  he  were  going  to  say  something  very 
confidential,  and  hitched  it  away  again,  as  not  being 
able  to  make  up  his  mind  how  to  begin,  that  in  the 
course  of  the  day  he  cruized  completely  round  the  par^ 
lour  in  that  frail  bark,  and  more  that  once  went  ashore 
against  the  wainscot  or  the  closet  door,  in  a very  dis- 
tressed condition. 

It  was  not  until  the  twilight  that  Captain  Cuttle,  fairly 
dropping  anchor,  at  last,  by  the  side  of  Florence,  began 
to  talk  at  all  connectedly.  But  when  the  light  of  th© 
VoL.  — R 


410 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


fire  was  shining  on  the  walls  and  ceiling  of  the  little 
room,  and  on  the  tea-board  and  the  cups  and  saucers 
that  were  ranged  upon  the  table,  and  on  her  calm  face 
turned  towards  the  flame,  and  reflecting  it  in  the  tears 
that  filled  her  eyes,  the  captain  broke  a long  silence 
thus  : 

‘‘You  never  was  at  sea,  my  own ? ” 

“ No,”  replied  Florence. 

“ Ay,”  said  the  captain  reverentially  ; “ it’s  a almighty 
element.  There’s  wonders  in  the  deep,  my  pretty. 
Think  on  it  when  the  winds  is  roaring  and  the  waves  is 
rowling.  Think  on  it  when  the  stormy  nights  is  so 
pitch  dark,”  said  the  captain,  solemnly  holding  up  his 
hook,  “ as  you  can’t  see  your  hand  afore  you,  excepting 
when  the  wiwid  lightning  re  weals  the  same  ; and  when 
you  drive,  drive,  drive  through  the  storm  and  dark,  as 
if  you  was  a driving,  head  on,  to  the  world  without 
end,  evermore,  amen,  and  when  found  making  a note 
of.  Them’s  the  times,  my  beauty,  when  a man  may  say 
to  his  messmate  (previously  a overhauling  of  the  wol- 
lume),  ‘ A stiff  norwester’s  blowing.  Bill ; hark,  don’t 
you  hear  it  roar  now  ! Lord  help  ’em,  how  I pitys  all 
unhappy  folks  ashore  now  I ’ ” Which  quotation,  as 
particularly  applicable  to  the  terrors  of  the  ocean,  the 
captain  delivered  in  a most  impressive  manner,  conclud- 
ing v/ith  a sonorous  “ Stand  by  ! ” 

“Were  you  ever  in  a dreadful  storm  ? ” asked  Flor- 
ence. 

“ Why  ay,  my  lady  lass,  I’ve  seen  my  share  of  bad 
weather,”  said  the  captain,  tremulously  wiping  his  head, 
*‘and  I’ve  had  my  share  of  knocking  about; — but  it 
an’t  of  myself  as  I was  meaning  to  speak.  Our  dear 
boy,”  drawing  closer  to  her,  “ Wal’r  darling,  as  was 
drownded.” 

The  captain  spoke  in  such  a trembling  voice,  and 
looked  at  Florence  with  a face  so  pale  and  agitated,  that 
she  clung  to  his  hand  in  affright. 

“Your  face  is  changed,”  cried  Florence.  *‘You  are 
altered  in  a moment.  What  is  it  ? Dear  Captain  Cut- 
tie,  it  turns  me  cold  to  see  you  ! ” 

“ What ! Lady  lass,”  returned  the  captain,  support- 
ing her  with  his  hand.  “Don’t  be  took  aback.  No, 
no  ? All’s  well,  all’s  well,  my  dear.  As  I was  a saying— 
Wal’r — he’s — he’s  drownded.  An’t  he  ? ” 

Florence  looked  at  him  intently  ; her  colour  came  and 
went,  and  she  laid  her  hand  upon  her  breast. 

“ There’s  perils  and  dangers  on  the  deep,  my  beauty,” 
said  the  captain ; “ and  over  many  a brave  ship,  and 
many  and  many  a bould  heart,  the  s<«ftret  waters  has 
closed  up,  and  never  told  no  tales.  But  there’s  escapes 
upon  the  deep,  too,  and  sometimes  one  man  out  of  a 


DOMBFiY  AND  SON. 


411 


score, — all  j may  be  out  of  a hundred,  pretty '—has  been 
saved  by  the  mercy  of  God,  and  come  home  after  being 
given  over  for  dead,  and  told  of  all  hands  lost.  I — I 
know  a story.  Heart's  Delight,”  stammered  the  captain, 
“ o'  this  natur,  as  was  told  to  me  once  ; and  being  on 
this  here  tack,  and  you  and  me  sitting  alone  by  the 
fire,  maybe  you'd  like  to  hear  me  tell  it.  Would  you, 
deary  ? ” 

Florence,  trembling  with  agitation  which  she  could 
not  control  or  understand,  involuntarily  followed  his 
glance,  which  went  behind  her  into  the  shop,  where  a 
lamp  was  burning.  The  instant  that  she  turned  her 
head,  the  captain  sprung  out  of  his  chair,  and  interposed 
his  hand. 

There's  nothing  there,  my  beauty,”  said,  the  captain. 

Don’t  look  there  !” 

‘VWhy  not?”  asked  Florence. 

The  captain  murmured  something  about  its  being  dull 
that  way,  and  about  the  fire  being  cheerful.  He  drew 
the  door  ajar,  which  had  been  standing  open  until  now, 
and  resumed  his  seat.  Florence  followed  him  with  her 
eyes,  and  looked  intently  in  his  face. 

‘‘  The  story  was  about  a ship,  my  lady  lass,”  began 
the  captain,  as  sailed  out  of  the  port  of  London,  with 
a fair  wind  and  in  fair  weather,  bound  for — don’t  be 
took  aback,  my  lady  lass,  she  was  only  out'ard  bound, 
pretty,  only  out'ard  bound  ! ” 

The  expression  on  Florence's  face  alarmed  the  cap- 
tain, who  was  himself  very  hot  and  flurried,  and  showed 
scarcely  less  agitation  than  she  did. 

Shall  I go  on.  Beauty?”  said  the  captain. 

‘‘Yes,  yes,  pray  !”  cried  Florence. 

The  captain  made  a gulp  as  if  to  get  down  something 
that  was  sticking  in  his  throat,  and  nervously  pro- 
ceeded : 

“That  there  unfort'nate  ship  met  with  such  foul 
weather,  out  at  sea,  as  don't  blow  once  in  twenty  year, 
my  darling.  There  was  hurricanes  ashore  as  tore  up 
forests  and  Mowed  down  towns,  and  there  was  gales  at 
sea  in  them  latitudes,  as  not  the  stoutest  wessel  ever 
launched  could  live  in.  Day  arter  day  that  there  un- 
fort’nate  ship  behaved  noble,  I’m  told,  and  did  her  duty 
brave,  my  pretty,  but  at  one  blow  a'most  her  bulwarks 
was  stove  in,  her  masts  and  rudder  carried  away,  her 
best  men  swept  overboard,  and  she  left  to  the  mercy  of 
the  storm  as  had  no  mercy  but  Mowed  harder  and  harder 
yet,  while  the  waves  dashed  over  her,  and  beat  her  in, 
and  every  time  they  come  a thundering  at  her,  broke 
her  like  a shell.  Every  black  spot  in  every  mountain 
of  water  that  rolled  away  was  a bit  o'  the  ship's  life  or 
a living  man,  and  so  she  went  to  pieces.  Beauty,  and  no 


413 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


grass  will  never  grow  upon  the  graves  of  them  as 
manned  that  ship. 

They  were  not  at  all  lost  I*’  cried  Florence.  Some 
were  saved  ! — Was  one?^’ 

Aboard  o"  that  there  unfortunate  wessel/^  said  the 
captain,  rising  from  his  chair,  and  clenching  his  hand 
with  prodigious  energy  and  exultation,  was  a lad, 
a gallant  lad— as  Fve  heerd  tell — that  had  loved,  when 
he  was  a boy,  to  sead  and  talk  about  brave  actions 
in  shipwrecks — I've  heerd  him  ! I've  heerd  him  ! — and 
he  remembered  of  'em  in  his  hour  of  need ; for  when  the 
stoutest  hearts  and  oldest  hands  was  hove  down,  he  was 
firm  and  cheery.  It  war’nt  the  want  of  objects  to  like 
and  love  ashore  that  gave  him  courage,  it  was  his  nat'ral 
mind.  I've  seen  it  in  his  face,  when  he  was  no  more 
than  a child — ay,  many  a time  ! — and  when  I thought  it 
nothing  but  his  gopd  looks,  bless  him  ! " 

'*And  was  he  saved  I”  cried  Florence.  '^Was  he 
saved  I " 

'‘That  brave  lad,”  said  the  captain — “look  at  me 
pretty  ! Don’t  look  round — '' 

Florence  had  hardly  power  to  repeat,  “ Why  not?” 

“Because  there's  nothing  there,  my  deary,”  said  the 
captain.  '■  Don't  be  took  aback,  pretty  creetur  ! Don't, 
for  the  sake  of  Wal’r,  as  was  dear  to  all  on  us  ! That 
there  lad,”  said  the  captain,  “ arter  working  with  the 
best,  and  standing  by  the  faint-hearted,  and  never  mak- 
ing no  complaint  nor  sign  of  fear,  and  keeping  up  a spirit 
in  all  hands  that  made  'em  honour  him  as  if  he'd  been  a 
admiral,— that  lad,  along  with  the  second  mate  and  one 
seaman,  was  left,  of  all  the  beat  in'  hearts  that  went 
aboard  that  ship,  the  only  living  creeturs — lashed  to  a 
fragment  of  the  wreck,  and  drifting  on  the  stormy 
sea.” 

“ Were  they  saved  I ” cried  Florence. 

“Days  and  nights  they  drifted  on  them  endless  waters,” 
said  the  captain,  “ until  at  la^^ — No  ! Don’t  look  that 
way,  pretty  ! — a sail  bore  down  upon  'em,  and  they  was, 
by  the  Lord’s  mercy,  took  aboard  : two  living,  and  one 
dead.” 

“ Which  of  them  was  dead  ! ” cried  Florence. 

“ Not  the  lad  I speak  on,''  said  the  captain. 

“ Thank  God  ! oh  thank  God  ! ” 

“ Amen  ! ” returned  the  captain  hurriedly.  “ Don't 
be  took  aback  ! A minute  more,  my  lady  lass  ! with  a 
good  heart ! — aboard  that  ship,  they  went  a long  voyage, 
Sfight  away  across  the  chart  (for  there  warn't  no  touching 
nowhere)  and  on  that  voyage  the  seaman  as  was  picked 
up  with  him  died.  But  he  was  spared,  and — ” 

The  captain,  without  knowing  what  he  did,  had  cut  a 
©lice  of  bread  from  the  loaf,  and  put  it  on  his  hook 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


413 


(wliicli  was  his  usual  toasting-fork),  on  which  he  noY? 
held  it  to  the  fire  ; looking  behind  Florence  with  great 
emotion  in  his  face,  and  suffering  the  bread  to  blaze  and 
burn  like  fuel. 

Was  spared,”  repeated  Florence,  '"and — ?” 

" And  come  home  in  that  ship,”  said  the  captain,  stiYl 
looking  in  the  same  direction,  " and— don’t  be  fright- 
ened, pretty— and  landed  ; and  one  morning  come  cau- 
tiously to  his  own  door  to  take  a obserwation,  know- 
ing that  his  friends  would  think  him  drownded,  when  ho 
sheered  off  at  the  unexpected—” 

"At  the  unexpected  barking  of  a dog?'’  cried  Flor- 
ence, quickly, 

"Yes,”  roared  the  captain.  "Steady,  darling  ! cour- 
age ! Don’t  look  round  yet.  See  there  ! upon  the  wall  I ” 
There  was  the  shadow  of  a man  upon  the  wall  close 
to  her.  She  started  up,  looked  round,  and  with  a pierc- 
ing cry,  saw  Walter  Gay  behind  her  I 

She  had  no  thought  of  him  but  as  a brother,  a brother 
rescued  from  the  grave  ; a shipwrecked  brother  saved 
and  at  her  side  ; and  rushed  into  liis  arms.  In  all  the 
world,  he  seemed  to  be  her  hope,  her  comfort,  refuge, 
natural  protector.  " Take  care  of  Walter,  I was  fond  of 
Walter  I ” The  dear  remembrance  of  the  plaintive  voice 
that  said  so,  rushed  upcn  her  soul,  like  music  in  the 
night.  "Oh  welcome  home,  dear  Walter!  Welcome 
to  this  stricken  breast  ! ” She  felt  the  words,  although 
she  could  not  utter  them,  and  held  him  in  her  pure  em- 
brace. 

Captain  Cuttle,  in  a fit  of  delirium,  attempted  to  wipe 
his  head  with  the  blackened  toast  upon  his  hook  ; and 
finding  it  an  uncongenial  substance  for  the  purpose,  put 
it  into  the  crown  of  his  glazed  hat,  put  the  glazed  hat 
on  with  some  difficulty,  essayed  to  sing  a verse  of  Lovely 
Peg,  broke  down  at  the  first  word,  and  retired  into 
the  shop,  whence  he  presently  came  back,  express,  with 
a face  all  flushed  and  besmeared,  and  the  starch  com- 
pletely taken  out  of  his  shirt-collar  to  say  these  words  ; 

“ Wal’r,  my  lad,  here  is  a little  bit  of  property  as  f 
should  wish  to  make  over,  jintly  ! ” 

The  captain  hastily  produced  the  big  watch,  the  tea- 
spoons, the  sugar-tongs,  and  the  canister,  and  laying 
them  on  the  table,  swept  them  with  his  great  hand  into 
Yfalter’s  hat ; but  in  handing  that  singular  strong  box 
to  Walter,  he  was  so  overcome  again,  that  he  was  fain 
to  make  another  retreat  into  the  shop,  and  absent  him- 
self for  a longer  space  of  time  than  on  his  first  retire- 
ment. 

But  Walter  sought  him  ont,  and  brought  him  back  ; 
and  then  the  captain’s  great  apprehension  was,  tha4 
"Florence  v^ould  suffer  from  this  new  shock.  He  felt  it 


414 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


SO  earnestly,  that  he  turned  quite  rational,  and  positive- 
ly interdicted  any  further  allusions  to  Walter’s  adTen- 
tures  for  some  days  to  come.  Captain  Cuttle  then  be- 
came sufficiently  composed  to  relieve  himself  of  the  toast 
iu  his  hat,  and  to  take  his  place  at  the  tea-hoard ; but 
finding  Walter’s  grasp  upon  his  shoulder,  on  one  side, 
and  Florence  whispering  her  tearful  congratulations  on 
the  other,  the  captain  suddenly  bolted  again,  and  was 
missing  for  a good  ten  minutes. 

But  never  in  all  his  life  had  the  captain’s  face  so 
shone  and  glistened,  as  when,  at  last,  he  sat  stationary 
at  the  tea-board,  looking  from  Florence  to  Walter,  and 
from  Walter  to  Florence.  Nor  was  this  effect  produced 
or  at  all  heightened  by  the  immense  quantity  of  polish- 
ing he  had  administered  to  his  face  with  his  coat-sleeve 
during  the  last  half-hour.  It  was  solely  the  effect  of  his 
internal  emotions.  There  was  a glory  and  delight  with- 
in the  captain  that  spread  itself  over  his  whole  visage, 
and  made  a perfect  illumination  there. 

The  pride  with  which  the  captain  looked  upon  the 
bronzed  cheek  and  the  courageous  eyes  of  his  recovered 
boy  ; with  which  he  saw  the  generous  fervour  of  his 
youth,  and  all  its  frank  and  hopeful  qualities,  shining 
once  more,  in  the  fresh,  wholesome  manner,  and  the  ar- 
dent face  : would  have  kindled  something  of  this  light 
in  his  countenance.  The  admiration  and  sympathy  with 
which  he  turned  his  eyes  on  Florence,  whose  beauty, 
grace,  and  innocence  could  have  won  no  truer  or  more 
zealous  champion  than  himself,  would  have  had  an 
equal  influence  upon  him.  Bnt  the  fulness  of  the  glow 
he  ^hed  around  him  could  only  have  been  engendered  in 
his  contemplation  of  the  two  together,  and  in  all  the 
fancies  springing  out  of  that  association,  that  came 
sparkling  and  beaming  into  his  head,  and  danced  about 
it. 

How  they  talked  of  poor  old  Uncle  Sol,  and  dwelt  on 
every  little  circumstance  relating  to  his  disappearance  ; 
how  their  joy  was  moderated  by  the  old  man’s  absence 
and  by  the  misfortunes  of  Florence  ; how  they  released 
Diogenes,  whom  the  captain  had  decoyed  up-stairs  some 
time  before,  lest  he  should  bark  again  : the  captain, 
though  he  was  in  one  continual  flutter,  and  made  many 
more  short  plunges  into  the  shop,  fully  comprehended. 
But  he  no  more  dreamed  that  Walter  looked  on  Florence 
as  it  were,  from  a new  and  far-off  place  ; that  while  his 
eyes  often  sought  the  lovely  face,  they  seldom  met  its 
open  glance  of  sisterly  affection,  but  withdrew  them- 
selves when  hers  were  raised  towards  him  ; than  he  be- 
lieved that  it  was  Walter’s  ghost  who  sat  beside  him. 
He  saw  them  there  together,  in  their  youth  and  beauty, 
smd  he  knew  the  story  of  their  younger  days,  and  he  had 


DOMBKY  AND  SON. 


415 


no  incli  of  room  beneatli  his  great  blue  waistcoat  for  any- 
thing save  admiration  of  such  a pair,  and  gratitude  for 
their  being  re-united. 

They  sat  thus,  until  it  grew  late.  The  captain  would 
have  been  content  to  sit  so  for  a week.  But  Walter  rose, 
to  take  leave  for  the  night. 

Going  Walter  I ” said  Florence.  Where? 

He  slings  his  hammock  for  the  present,  lady  lass,'* 
said  Captain  Cuttle,  round  at  Brogley’s.  Within  hail. 
Heart’s  Delight.” 

I am  the  cause  of  your  going  away,  Walter,”  said 
Florence.  There  is  a houseless  sister  in  your  place.  ” 
'‘Dear  Miss  Dombey,”  replied  Walter,  hesitating — 
if  it  is  not  too  bold,  to  call  you  so  ” 

" — Walter,”  she  exclaimed,  surprised. 

" If  anything  could  make  me  happier  in  being  allowed 
to  see  and  speak  to  you,  would  it  not  be  the  discovery 
that  I had  any  means  on  earth  of  doing  you  a moment’s 
service  ? Where  would  I not  go,  what  would  I not  do, 
for  your  sake  ? ” 

She  smiled,  and  called  him  brother. 

"You  are  so  changed,”  said  Walter— 

" I changed  !”  she  interrupted. 

" — To  me,”  said  Walter,  softly,  as  if  he  were  think- 
ing aloud,  "changed  to  me.  I left  you  "such  a child, 
and  find  you — oh  ! something  so  different — ” 

" But  your  sister,  Walter.  You  have  not  forgotten 
what  we  promised  to  each  other,  when  we  parted  ? ” 

" Forgotten  ! ” But  he  said  no  more. 

"And  if  you  had— if  suffering  and  danger  had  driven 
it  from  your  thoughts — which  it  has  not — you  would  re- 
member it  now,  Walter,  when  you  find  me  poor  and 
abandoned,  with  no  home  but  this,  and  no  friends  but 
the  two  who  hear  me  speak  ! ” 

" I would  ! Heaven  knows  I would  ! ” said  Walter. 
"Oh,  Walter,”  exclaimed  Florence,  through  her  sobs 
and  tears.  " Dear  Brother  I Show  me  some  way 
through  the  world — some  humble  path  that  I may  take 
alone,  and  labour  in  and  sometimes  think  of  you  as  one 
who  will  protect  and  care  for  me  as  for  a sister  1 Oh, 
help  me  Walter,  for  I need  help  so  much  ! ” 

" Miss  Dombey  ! Florence  ! I would  die  to  help 
you.  But  your  friends  are  proud  and  rich.  Your 
father — 

\f;  "No,  no  ! Walter  !”  she  shrieked,  and  put  her  hands 
i|  up  to  her  head,  in  an  attitude  of  terror  that  transfixed 
f him  where  he  stood.  " Don’t  say  that  word  ! ” 

He  never  from  that  hour  forgot  the  voice  and  look 
with  which  she  stopped  him  at  the  name.  He  felt  that 
if  he  were  to  live  a hundred  years,  he  never  could  for- 
get it. 


416 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Somewhere — anywhere — ^hut  never  home  ! All  pastj 
all  gone,  all  lost,  and  broken  up  ! The  whole  historj'  cf 
her  untold  slight  and  suffering  was  in  the  cry  and  look ; 
and  he  felt  he  never  could  forget  it,  and  he  never  did. 

She  laid  her  gentle  face  upon  the  captain’s  shoulder, 
and  related  how  and  why  she  had  fled.  If  every  sorrow- 
ing tear  she  shed  in  doing  so,  had  been  a curse  upon  the 
head  of  him  she  never  named  or  blamed,  it  would  have 
been  better  for  him,  Walter  thought,  with  awe,  than 
to  be  renounced  but  of  such  a strength  and  might  of 
love. 

There,  precious  ! ’’  said  the  captain^  when  she  ceased; 
Q^d  deep  attention  the  captain  had  paid  to  her  while 
she  spoke  ; listening,  with  his  glazed  hat  all  awry,  and 
bis  mouth  wide  open.  Awast,  awast,  my  eyes  ! WaTr, 
dear  lad,  sheer  off  for  to-night,  and  leave  the  pretty  one 
to  me  ! ” 

Walter  took  her  hand  in  both  of  his,  and  put  it  to  his 
lips,  and  kissed  it.  He  knew  now  that  she  was,  indeed, 
a homeless  wandering  fugitive  ; but,  richer  to  him  so, 
than  in  all  the  wealth  and  pride  of  her  right  station,  she 
seemed  farther  off  than  even  on  the  height  that  had  made 
him  giddy  in  his  boyish  dreams. 

Captain  Cuttle,  perplexed  by  no  such  meditations, 
guarded  Florence  to  her  room,  watched  at  intervals 
upon  the  charmed  ground  outsido  her  door — for  such  it 
truly  was  to  him — until  he  felt  sufficiently  easy  in  his 
mind  about  her,  to  turn  in  under  the  counter.  On 
abandoning  his  watch  for  that  purpose,  he  could  not 
help  calling  once,  rapturously,  throught  the  keyhole, 

Drownded.  An’t  he,  pretty  or,  when  he  got  down- 
stairs, making  another  trial  at  that  verse  of  Lovely  Peg. 
But  it  stuck  in  his  throat  somehow,  and  he  could  make 
nothing  of  it  ; so  he  went  to  bed,  and  dreamed  that  oM 
Sol  Gills  was  married  to  Mrs.  MacStinger,  and  kept- 
prisoner  by  that  lady  in  a secret  chamber  on  a shor^ 
allowance  of  victuals. 


CHAPTER  L. 

Mr,  Toots's  Complaint. 

The:re  was  an  empty  room  above  stairs  at  the  Woodeii. 
Midshipman’s,  which,  in  days  of  yore,  had  been  Walter’s 
bedroom.  Walter,  rousing  up  the  captain  betimes  in 
the  morning,  proposed  that  they  should  carry  thither 
such  furniture  out  of  the  little  parlour  as  would  grace  it 
best,  so  that  Florence  might  take  possession  of  it  when 
she  rose.  As  nothing  could  be  more  agreeable  to  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  than  making  himself  very  red  and  short  of 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


417 


breath  in  such  a cause,  he  turned  to  (as  he  himself  .said) 
with  a will  ; and  in  a couple  of  hours,  tliis  garret  was 
transformed  into  a species  of  land -cabin,  adorned  with 
all  the  choicest  moveables  out  of  the  parlour,  incl'asive 
even  of  the  Tartar  frigate,  which  the  captain  hung  up 
over  the  chimney-piece  with  such  extreme  delight,  that 
he  could  do  nothing  for  half  an  hour  afterwards  but  walk 
backward  from  it,  lost  in  admiration. 

The  captain  could  be  induced  by  no  persuasion  of 
Walter’s  to  wind  up  the  big  watch,  or  to  take  back  the 
canister,  or  to  touch  the  sugar-tongs  and  tea-spoons. 

No,  no,  my  lad  ; ” was  the  captain’s  invariable  reply  to 
any  solicitation  of  the  kind,  ‘ ‘ I’ve  made  that  there  little 
property  over,  jintly.”  These  words  he  repeated  with 
great  unction  and  gravity,  evidently  believing  that  they 
had  the  virtue  of  an  act  of  parliament,  and  that  unless 
he  committed  himself  by  some  new  admission  of  owner- 
ship,  no  flaw  could  he  found  in  such  a form  of  convey- 
ance. 

It  was  an  advantage  of  the  new"  arrangement,  that  be- 
sides the  greater  seclusion  it  afforded  Florence,  it  admitted 
of  the  Midshipman  being  restored  to  his  usual  post  of 
observation,  and  also  of  the  shop  shutters  being  taken 
down.  The  latter  ceremony,  however  little  importance 
the  unconscious  captain  attached  to  it,  was  not  wholly 
superfluous  ; for,  on  the  previous  day,  so  much  excite- 
ment had  been  occasioned  in  the  neighbourhood,  by 
the  shutters  remaining  unopened,  that  the  Instrument- 
maker’s  house  had  been  honoured  with  an  unusal  share 
of  public  observation,  and  had  been  intently  stared  at 
from  the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  by  groups  of  hungry 
gazers,  at  any  time  between  sunrise  and  sunset.  The 
idlers  and  vagabonds  had  been  particularly  interested  in 
the  captain’s  fate  ; constantly  groveling  in  the  mud  to 
apply  their  eyes  to  the  cellar-grating,  under  the  shop- 
window",  and  delighting  their  imagination  with  the  fancy 
that  they  could  see  a piece  of  his  coat  as  he  hung  in  a 
corner  ; though  this  settlement  of  him  was  stoutly  dis- 
puted by  an  opposite  faction  who  were  of  opinion  that  he 
lay  murdered  wi^th  a hammer,  on  the  stairs.  It  was  not 
without  exciting  some  discontent,  therefore,  that  the 
subject  of  these  rumours  was  seen  early  in  the  morning 
standing  at  his  shop-door  as  hale  and  hearty  as  if  noth- 
ing had  happened  : and  the  beadle  of  that  quarter,  a 
man  of  an  ambitious  character,  who  had  expected  to 
have  the  distinction  of  being  present  at  the  breaking  opeaa 
of  the  door,  and  of  giving  .evidence  in  full  uniform  before 
the  coroner,  went  so  far  as  to  say  to  an  opposite  neigh- 
bour, that  the  chap  in  the  glazed  hat  had  better  not  try 
it  on  there — ^withoutmore  particularly  mentioning  what— 


418 


WOKKS  OF  CHAKLES  DICKENS. 


and  further,  that  he  the  beadle,  would  keep  his  eye  upon 
him. 

“Captain  Cuttle,^'  said  Walter,  musing,  when  they 
stood  resting  from  their  labours,  at  the  shop-door,  look- 
ing down  the  old  familiar  street ; it  being  still  early  ii| 
the  morning  ; ‘^nothing  at  all  of  Uncle  Sol,  in  all  that 
time  I ” 

“ Nothing  at  all,  my  lad,”  replied  the  captain,  shaliing 
his  head. 

“Gone  in  search  of  me,  dear,  kind  old  man,”  said 
Walter  ; “ yet  never  write  to  you  ! But  why  not  ? He 
says,  in  effect,  in  this  packet  that  you  gave  me,”  taking 
the  paper  from  his  pocket,  which  had  been  opened  in 
the  presence  of  the  enlightened  Bunsby,  “ that  if  you 
jaever  hear  from  him  before  opening  it,  you  may  believe 
ihim  dead.  Heaven  forbid  ! But  you  would  have  heard 
^him  even  if  he  were  dead  ! Some  one  would  have 
written,  surely,  by  his  desire,  if  he  could  not ; and  have 
aaid,  ‘ on  such  a day  there  died  in  my  house,'  ‘ or  under 
my  care,'  or  so  forth,  ^ Mr.  Solomon  Gills  of  London,  who 
left  this  last  remembrance  and  this  last  request  to  you.' '' 

The  captain,  who  had  never  climbed  to  such  a clear 
height  of  probability  before,  was  greatly  impressed  by 
the  wide  prospect  it  opened,  and  answered,  with  a 
thoughtful  shake  of  his  head,  “Well  said,  my  lad  ; 
wery  well  said.” 

“ I have  been  thinking  of  this,  or,  at  least,”  said  Wal- 
ter, colouring,  “ I have  been  thinking  of  one  thing  and 
another,  all  through  a sleepless  night,  and  I cannot  be- 
lieve, Captain  Cuttle,  but  that  my  Uncle  Sol  (Lord  bless 
him  !)  is  alive,  and  will  return.  I don't  so  much  wonder 
at  his  going  away,  because  leaving  out  of  consideration 
that  spice  of  the  marvellous  which  was  always  in  his 
character,  and  his  great  affection  for  me,  before  which 
fevery  other  consideration  of  his  life  became  nothing,  as 
no  one  ought  to  know  so  well  as  I who  had  the  best  of 
fathers  in  him,”— Walter's  voice  was  indistinct  and 
husky  here,  and  he  looked  away,  along  the  street, — 
“ leaving  that  out  of  consideration,  I say,  I have  often 
read  and  heard  of  people  who,  having  some  near  and 
dear  relative,  who  was  supposed  to  be  shipwrecked  at 
sea,  have  gone  down  to  live  on  that  part  of  the  sea-shore 
where  any  tidings  of  the  missing  ship  might  be  expected 
to  arrive,  though  only  an  hour  or  two  sooner  than  else- 
where, or  have  even  gone  upon  her  track  to  the  place 
whither  she  was  bound,  as  if  their  going  would  create 
antelligence.  I think  I should  do  such  a thing  myself, 
as  soon  as  another,  or  sooner  than  many,  perhaps.  But 
why  my  uncle  shouldn't  write  to  you,  when  he  so  clearly 
intended  to  do  so,  or  how  he  should  die  abroad,  and  you 


DOMBEY  AND  SON 


419 


not  know  it  through  some  other  hand,  I cannot  make 
out/* 

Captain  Cuttle  observed  with  a shake  of  his  head,  that 
Jack  Bunsby  himself  hadn’t  made  it  out,  and  that  he 
was  a man  as  could  give  a pretty  taut  opinion  too. 

“If  my  uncle  had  been  a heedless  young  man,  likely 
to  be  entrapped  by  jovial  company  to  some  drinking- 
place,  where  he  was  to  be  got  rid  of  for  the  sake  of  what 
money  he  might  have  about  him,”  said  Walter  ; “or  if 
he  had  been  a reckless  sailor,  going  ashore  with  two  or 
three  months’  pay  in  his  pocket,  I could  understand  his 
disappearing,  and  leaving  no  trace  behind.  But,  being 
what  he  was — and  is,  I hope — I can’t  believe  it.” 

Wal’r  my  lad,”  inquired  the  captain,  wistfully  eye- 
ing him  as  he  pondered  and  pondered,  “what  do  you 
make  of  it,  then?” 

“Captain  Cuttle,”  returned  Walter,  “I  don’t  know 
what  to  make  of  it.  I suppose  he  never  has  written ! 
There  is  no  doubt  about  that  ? ” 

“If  so  be  as  Sol  Gills  wrote,  my  lad,”  replied  the 
captain,  argumentatively,  “where’s  his  dispatch?” 

“ Say  that  he  entrusted  it  to  some  private  hand,”  sug- 
gested W'alter,  “and  that  it  has  been  forgotten  or  care- 
lessly thrown  aside,  or  lost.  Even  that  is  more  probable 
to  me,  than  the  other  event.  In  short,  I not  only  cannot 
bear  to  contemplate  that  other  event.  Captain  Cuttle, 
but  I can’t,  and  won’t.” 

^^Hope,  you  see,  Wal’r,”  said  the  captain,  sagely, 

Hope.  It’s  that  as  animates  you.  Hope  is  a buoy,  for 
which  you  overhaul  your  Little  Warbler,  sentimental 
diwision,  but  Lord,  my  lad,  like  any  other  buoy,  it  only 
boats ; it  can’t  be  steered  nowhere.  Along  with  the 
figure-head  of  Hope,”  said  the  captain,  “ there’s  a an- 
chor ; but  what’s  the  good  of  my  having  a anchor,  if  I 
can't  find  no  bottom  to  let  it  go  in.” 

Captain  Cuttle  said  this  rather  in  his  character  of  a 
^acious  citizen  and  householder,  bound  to  impart  a 
morsel  from  his  stores  of  wisdom  to  an  inexperienced 
youth,  than  in  his  owh  proper  person.  Indeed,  his  face 
was  quite  luminous  as  he  spoke,  with  new  hope,  caught 
from  Walter;  and  he  appropriately  concluded  by  slap- 
ping him  on  the  back  ; and  saying,  with  enthusiasm, 
“ Hooroar,  my  lad  ! Indiwidually,  I’m  o’  your  opinion.’' 

Walter,  with  his  cheerful  laugh,  returned  the  saluta- 
tion, and  said  ; 

“Only  one  word  more  about  my  uncle  at  present. 
Captain  Cuttle.  I suppose  it  is  impossible  that  he  can 
have  v/ritten  in  the  ordinary  course—by  mail  packet,  or 
ship  letter,  you  understand—” 

“ Ay,  ay,  my  lad,”  said  the  captain  approvingly, 

“ -=»And  that  you  have  missed  the  letter,  any  how?'* 


420 


WOKKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


‘^Why,  WaRr,”  said  the  captain,  turning  his  eyes 
upon  him  with  a faint  approach  to  a severe  expression, 

an’t  I been  on  the  look  out  for  any  tidings  of  that 
man  o’  science,  old  Sol  Gills,  your  uncle,  day  and  night, 
ever  since  I lost  him  ? An’t  my  heart  been  heavy  and 
watchful  always,  along  of  him  and  you?  Sleeping  and 
waking,  an’t  I been  upon  my  post,  and  wouldn’t  I 
have  scorned  to  quit  it  while  this  here  Midshipman  held 
together  ! ” 

^‘Yes,  Captain  Cuttle,”  replied  Walter,  grasping  his 
hand,  ‘‘I  know  you  would,  and  I knowhow  faithful  and 
earnest  all  yon  say  and  feel  is.  I am  sure  of  it.  You 
don’t  doubt  that  I am  as  sure  of  it  as  I am  that  my  foot 
is  again  upon  this  door-step,  or  that  I again  have  hold  of 
this  true  hand.  Do  you  ? ” 

No,  no,  Wal’r,”  returned  the  captain,  with  his 
beaming  face. 

I’ll  hazard  no  more  conjectures,”  said  Walter,  fer- 
vently shaking  the  hard  hand  of  the  captain,  who  shook 
his  with  no  less  good  will.  All  I will  add  is.  Heaven 
forbid  that  I should  touch  my  uncle’s  possessions.  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  I Everything  that  he  left  here,  shall  remain 
in  the  care  of  the  truest  of  stewards  and  kindest  of  men 
— and  if  his  name  is  not  Cuttle  he  has  no  name  ! Now, 
best  of  friends,  about— Miss  Dombey.  ” 

There  was  a change  in  Walter’s  manner,  as  he  came 
to  these  two  words  ; and  when  he  uttered  them,  all  his 
confidence  and  cheerfulness  appeared  to  have  deserted 
him. 

‘‘  I thought,  before  Miss  Dombey  stopped  me  when  I 
spoke  of  her  father  last  night,”  said  Walter,  — you  re- 
member how  ? ” 

The  captain  well  remembered,  and  shook  his  head. 

I thought,”  said  Walter,  “ before  that,  that  we  had 
but  one  hard  duty  to  perform,  and  that  it  was,  to  prevail 
upon  her  to  communicate  with  her  friends,  and  to  re- 
turn home.” 

The  captain  muttered  a feeble  Awast ! ” or  a 

Stand  by  ! ” or  something  or  other,  equally  pertinent 
to  the  occasion  ; but  it  was  rendered  so  extremely  feeble 
by  the  total  discomfiture  with  which  he  received  this 
announcement,  that  what  it  was,  is  mere  matter  of  con- 
jecture. 

“ But,”  said  Walter,  that  is  over.  I think  so  no 
longer.  I would  sooner  be  put  back  again  upon  that 
piece  of  wreck,  on  which  I have  so  often  floated,  since 
my  preservation,  in  my  dreams,  and  there  left  to  drift, 
and  drive,  and  die  ! ” 

Hooroar,  my  lad  I ” exclaimed  tlie  captain,  in  a 
burst  of  uncontrollable  satisfaction.  “ Hooroar  ! Hoa 
yoar  * Hooroar  J ” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


421 


To  think  that  she,  so  young,  so  good,  and  beauti« 
ful,”  said  Walter,  “ so  delicately  brought  up,  and  born 
to  such  a different  fortune,  should  strive  with  the  rough 
world  ! But  we  have  seen  the  gulf  that  cuts  off  all  be- 
hind her,  though  no  one  but  herself  can  know  how  deep 
it  is  ; and  there  is  no' return.” 

Captain  Cuttle,  without  quite  understanding  this^ 
greatly  approved  of  it,  and  observed,  in  a tone  of  strong 
corroboration,  that  the  wind  was  right  abaft. 

She  ought  not  to  be  alone  here  ; ought  she.  Captain 
Cuttle?”  said  Walter,  anxiously. 

‘‘Well  my  lad,”  replied  the  captain,  after  a little 
sagacious  consideration.  “ I don’t  know.  You  being 
here  to  keep  her  company,  you  see,  and  you  two  being 
jintly— ” 

“bear  Captain  Cuttle  !”  remonstrated  Walter,  “I 
being  here  I Miss  Dombej,  in  her  guileless  innocent 
heart,  regards  me  as  her  adopted  brother  ; but  what 
would  the  guile  and  guilt  of  my  heart  be,  if  I pretended 
to  believe  that  I had  any  right  to  approach  her,  famil- 
iarly, in  that  character— if  I pretended  to  forget  that  I 
am  bound,  in  honour,  not  to  do  it ! ” 

“ WaFr  my  lad,”  hinted  the  captain,  with  some  re- 
vival of  his  discomfiture,  “ an’t  there  no  other  charac- 
ter as — ” 

“Oh  !”  returned  W^alter,  “ would  you  have  me  die 
in  her  esteem — in  such  esteem  as  hers — and  put  a veil 
between  myself  and  her  angeFs  face  for  ever,  by  taking 
advantage  of  her  being  here  for  refuge,  so  trusting,  and 
so  unprotected,  to  endeavour  to  exalt  myself  into  her 
lover  ! What  do  I say  ? There  is  no  one  in  the  world 
who  would  be  more  opposed  to  me  if  I could  do  so,  than 
you.” 

“ WaFr  my  lad,”  said  the  captain,  drooping  more  and 
more,  “ prowiding  as  there  is  any  just  cause  of  impedi- 
ment why  two  persons  should  not  be  jined  together  in 
the  house  of  bondage,  for  which  you’ll  overhaul  the 
place  and  make  a note,  I hope  I should  declare  it  as  pro- 
mised and  wowed  in  the  banns.  So  there  an’t  NO  other 
character ; an’t  there,  my  lad  ! ” 

Walter  briskly  waved  his  hand  in  the  negative. 

“ Well,  my  lad,”  growled  the  Captain  slowly,  “ I won’t 
deny  but  what  I find  myself  wery  much  down  by  the 
head,  along  o’  this  here,  or  but  what  I’ve  gone  clean 
about.  But  as  to  Ladylass,  WaFr,  mind  you,  wot’s  re- 
spect and  duty  to  her  is  respect  and  duty  in  my  articles, 
howsumever  disappinting  ; and  therefore  I follows  in  your 
wake,  my  lad,  and  feel  as  you  are,  no  doubt,  acting  up 
to  yourself.  And  there  an’t  no  other  character,  an’t 
there  ! ” said  the  captain,  musing  over  the  ruins  of  his 
fallen  castle  with  a very  despondent  face. 


422 


WOKKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ Now,  Captain  Cuttle,”  said  Walter,  starting  a fresli 
^oint  with  a gayer  air,  to  cheer  the  captain  up — but 
'fiothing  could  do  that  ; he  was  too  much  concerned — I 
ihink  we  should  exert  ourselves  to  find  some  one  who 
would  be  a proper  attendant  for  Miss  Dombey  while  she 
remains  here,  and  who  may  be  trusted.  None  of  her  re- 
lations may.  It's  clear  Miss  Dombey  feels  that  they  are 
all  subservient  to  her  father.  What  has  become  of 
Busan  ? ” 

“ The  young  woman  ? ” returned  the  captain.  It’s  my 
belief  as  she  was  sent  away  again  the  will  of  Heart’s 
Delight.  I made  a signal  for  her  when  Lady-lass  first 
come,  and  she  rated  of  her  wery  high,  and  said  she  had 
been  gone  a long  time.” 

Then,”  said  Walter,  do  you  ask  Miss  Dombey,  where 
she’s  gone,  and  we’ll  try  to  find  her.  The  morning’s  get- 
ting on,  and  Miss  Dombey  will  soon  be  rising.  You  are 
her  best  friend.  Wait  for  her  up  stairs,  and  leave  me  to 
take  care  of  all  down  here.” 

The  captain,  very  crest-fallen  indeed,  echoed  the  sigh 
with  which  Walter  said  this,  and  complied.  Florence 
was  xielighted  with  her  new  room,  anxious  to  see  Wal- 
ter, and  overjoyed  at  the  prospect  of  greeting  her  old 
friend  Susan.  But  Florence  could  not  say  where  Susan 
was  gone,  excepVthat  it  was  in  Essex,  and  no  one  could 
say,  she  remembered,  unless  it  were  Mr.  Toots. 

With  this  information  the  melancholy  captain  returned 
to  Walter,  and  gave  him  to  understand  that  Mr.  Toots 
was  the  young  gentleman  whom  he  had  encountered  on 
the  door-step,  and  that  he  was  a friend  of  his,  and  that 
he  was  a young  gentleman  of  property,  and  that  he  hope- 
lessly adored  Miss  Dombey.  The  captain  also  related 
how  the  intelligence  of  Walter’s  supposed  fate  had  first 
made  him  acquainted  with  Mr.  Toots,  and  how  there 
was  solemn  treaty  and  compact  between  them  that 
Mr.  Toots  should  be  mute  upon  the  subject  of  his 
love. 

The  question  then  was,  whether  Florence  could  trust 
Mr.  Toots  ; and  Florence  saying,  with  a smile,  Oh,  yes, 
with  her  whole  heart ! ” it  became  important  to  find  out 
where  Mr.  Toots  lived.  This  Florence  didn’t  know,  and 
the  captain  had  forgotten  ; and  the  captain  was  telling 
Walter  in  the  little  parlour  that  Mr.  Toots  was  sure  to  be 
there  soon,  when  in  came  Mr.  Toots  himself. 

“ Captain  Gills,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  rushing  into  the  par- 
lour without  any  ceremony,  I’m  in  a state  of  mind  bor- 
dering on  distraction ! ” 

Mr.  Toots  had  discharged  those  words,  as  from  a mortar^ 
before  he  observed  Walter,  whom  he  recognized  with 
what  may  be  described  as  a chuckle  of  mism’y. 

You’ll  excuse  me,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Toots’  holding  his 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


423 


forehead,  "^but  Fm  at  present  in  that  state  that  my 
brain  Is  going,  if  not  gone,  and  anything  approaching  to 
politeness  in  an  individual  so' situated  would  be  a hollow 
mockery.  Captain  Gills,  I beg  to  request  the  favour  o! 
a private  interview/' 

“Why,  brother,"  returned  the  captain,  taking  him  by 
the  hand,  “ you  are  the  man  as  we  was  on  the  look-out 
for." 

“Oh,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  “what  a look« 
out  that  must  be  of  which  I am  the  object ! I haven’t 
dared  to  shave,  Fm  in  that  rash  state.  I haven’t  had 
my  clothes  brushed.  My  hair  is  matted  together.  I told 
the  Chicken  that  if  he  offered  to  clean  my  boots,  Fd 
stretch  him  a Corpse  before  me  ! " 

All  these  indications  of  a disordered  mind  were  veri- 
fied in  Mr.  Toots's  appearance,  which  was  wild  rmd 
savage. 

“ See  here,  brother,"  said  the  captain.  “ This  here’s 
old  Sol  Gills’s  nevy  Wal’r.  Him  as  was  supposed  to  have 
perished  at  sea." 

Mr.  Toots  took  his  hand  from  his  forehead,  and  stared 
at  Walter. 

“ Good  gracious  me  ! " stammered  Mr.  Toots,  ''What 
a complication  of  misery  I How-de-do  ? I — I — Fm  afraid 
you  must  have  got  very  wet.  Captain  Gills,  will  you 
allow  me  a word  in  the  shop  ? ’’ 

He  took  the  captain  by  the  coat,  and  going  out  with 
him  whispered  : 

“ That  then.  Captain  Gills,  is  the  party  you  spoke  of, 
when  you  said  that  he  and  Miss  Dombey  were  made  for 
one  another  ? " 

“ Why,  ay,  my  lad,"  replied  the  disconsolate  captain  ; 
“ I vv^as  of  that  mind  once." 

“ And  at  this  time  I ” exclaimed  Mr.  Toots,  with  his 
hand  to  his  forehead  again.  “ Of  all  others  ! — a hated 
rival  ! At  least,  he  an’t  a hated  rival,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
stopping  short,  on  second  thoughts,  and  taking  away  his 
hand  ; “ what  should  I hate  him  for  ? No.  If  my  affec- 
tion has  been  truly  disinterested , Captain  Gills,  let  me 
prove  it  now  ? " 

Mr.  Toots  shot  back  abruptly  into  the  parlour,  and  said, 
wringing  Walter  by  the  hand  : 

“ How-de-do  ? I hope  you  didn’t  take  any  cold.  I-«l 
shall  be  very  glad  if  you’ll  give  me  the  pleasure  of  your 
acquaintance,  I wish  you  many  happy  returns  of  the  day. 
Upon  my  word  and  honour,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  warming  as 
he  became  better  acquainted  with  Walter’s  face  and  fig- 
ure, “ I’m  very  glad  to  see  you  ! ’’ 

“ Thank  you  heartily,"  said  Walter.  “ I couldn’t  de- 
sire a more  genuine  and  genial  welcome." 

“ Couldn’t  you,  though?"  said  Mr.  Toots  still  shaking 


424 


WOEKS  OF  CHAELES  DICKENS. 


his  hand.  It’s  very  kind  of  you.  I’m  much  obliged  to 
you.  How-de-do  ? I hope  you  left  everybody  quite  well 
over  the — that  is,  upon  the — I mean  wherever  you  came 
from  last,  you  know.” 

All  these  good  wishes,  and  better  intentions,  Waltez 
responded  to  manfully. 

“ Captain  Gills,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  **  I should  wish  to  be 
strictly  honourable  ; but  I trust  I may  be  allowed  now^ 
to  allude  to  a certain  subject  that—” 

Ay,  ay,  my  lad,”  returned  the  captain.  Freely, 
freely.  ” 

“ Then,  Captain  Gills,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  **  and  Lieuten- 
ant Walters,  are  you  aware  that  the  most  dreadful  cir- 
cumstances have  beeri  happening  at  Mr.  Dom  bey’s  house, 
and  that  Miss  Dombey  herself  has  left  her  father,  who, 
in  my  opinion,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  with  great  excitement, 
is  a Brute,  that  it  would  be  a flattery  to  call  a — a mar- 
ble monument,  or  a bird  of  prey, — and  that  she  is  not  to 
be  found,  and  has  gone  no  one  knows  where  ? ” 

“ May  I ask  how  you  heard  this  ?”  inquired  Walter. 

Lieutenant  Walters,  ” said  Mr.  Toots,  who  had  ar- 
rived at  that  appellation  by  a process  peculiar  to  himself ; 
probably  by  jumbling  up  his  Christian  name  with  the 
seafaring  profession,  and  supposing  ^onje  relationship  be- 
tween him  and  the  captain,  which  would  extend,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  to  their  titles  ; ‘‘  Lieutenant  Walters,  I 
can  have  no  objection  to  make  a straightforward  reply. 
The  fact  is,  that  feeling  extremely  interested  in  every- 
thing that  relates  to  Miss  Dombey— not  for  any  selfish 
reason.  Lieutenant  Walters,  for  I am  well  aware  that  the 
most  agreeable  thing  I could  do  for  all  parties  would  be 
to  put  an  end  to  my  existence,  which  can  only  be  regard- 
ed as  an  inconvenience — I have  been  in  the  habit  of  be- 
stowing a trifle  now  and  then  upon  a footman  ; a most 
respectable  young  man,  of  the  name  of  Towlinson,  who 
has  lived  in  the  family  some  time  ; and  Towlinson  in- 
formed me,  yesterday  evening,  that  this  was  the  state  of 
things.  Since  which.  Captain  Gills — and  Lieutenant  Wal- 
ters— I have  been  perfectly  frantic,  and  have  been  lying 
down  on  the  sofa  all  night,  the  Ruin  you  behold.” 

Mr.  Toots,”  said  Walter,  I am  happy  to  be  able  to 
relieve  your  mind.  Pray  calm  yourself.  Miss  Dombey 
is  safe  and  well.” 

Sir  !”  cried  Mr.  Toots,  starting  from  his  chair  and 
shaking  hands  with  him  anew,  '‘the  relief  is  so  exces- 
sive, and  unspeakable,  that  if  you  were  to  tell  me  now 
that  Miss  Dombey  was  married  even,  I could  smile.  Yes, 
Captain  Gills,”  said  Mr.  Toots  appealing  to  him,  **  upon 
my  soul  and  body,  I really  think,  whatever  I might  do  to 
myself  immediately  afterwards,  that  I could  smile,  I am 
so  relieved.” 


DOMBEr  AND  SON. 


425 


‘‘  It  will  be  a greater  relief  and  delight  still,  to  such  a 
generous  mind  as  yours/’  said  Walter,  not  at  all  slow  in 
returning  his  greeting,  ‘‘to  find  that  you  can  render  ser« 
vice  to  Miss  Dombey.  Captain  Cuttle,  will  you  have  the 
kindness  to  take  Mr.  Toots  up-stairs  ? 

The  captain  beckoned  to  Mr.  Toots,  who  followed  him 
with  a bewildered  countenance,  and,  ascending  to  the  top 
of  the  house,  was  introduced,  without  a word  of  prepar- 
ation from  his  conductor,  into  Florence’s  new  retreat. 

Poor  Mr.  Toots’s  amazement  and  pleasure  at  sight  of 
her  were  such,  that  they  could  find  a vent  in  nothing  but 
extravagance.  He  ran  up  to  her,  seized  her  hand,  kissed 
it,  dropped  it,  seized  it  again,  fell  upon  one  knee,  shed 
tears,  chuckled,  and  was  quite  regardless  of  his  danger 
of  being  pinned  by  Diogenes,  who,  inspired  by  the  belief 
that  there  was  something  hostile  to  his  mistress  in  these 
demonstrations,  worked  round  and  round  him,  as  if  only 
undecided  at  what  particular  point  to  go  in  for  the  as- 
sault, but  quite  resolved  to  do  him  a fearful  mischief. 

‘‘  Oh  Di,  you  bad,  forgetful  dog  I Dear  Mr.  Toots,  I 
am  so  rejoiceu  to  see  you  ! ” 

Thankee,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  “ I am  pretty  well.  I’m 
much  obliged  to  you.  Miss  Dombey.  I hope  all  the  family 
are  the  same.” 

Mr.  Toots  said  this  without  the  least  notion  of  what  he 
was  talking  about,  and  sat  down  on  a chair,  staring  at 
Florence  with  the  liveliest  contention  of  delight  and  de- 
spair going  on  his  face  that  any  face  could  exhibit. 

Captain  Gills  and  Lieutenant  Walters  have  men- 
tioned, Miss  Dombey,”  gasped  Mr.  Toots,  that  I can  do 
you  some  service.  If  I could  by  any  means  wash  out 
the  remembrance  of  that  day  at  Brighton,  when  I con- 
ducted myself — much  more  like  a Parricide  than  a per- 
son of  independent  property,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  with  se- 
vere self-accusation,  I should  sink  into  the  silent  tomb 
with  a gleam  of  joy.” 

“Pray,  Mr.  Toots,”  said  Florence,  “do  not  wish  me 
to  forget  anything  in  our  acquaintance.  I never  can, 
believe  me.  You  have  been  far  too  kind  and  good  to 
me,  always.” 

“ Miss  Dombey,”  returned  Mr.  Toots,  your  considera- 
tion for  my  feelings  is  a part  of  your  angelic  character. 
Thank  you  a thousand  times.  It’s  of  no  consequence  at 
all.” 

“ What  we  thought  of  asking  you,”  said  Florence,  “ is, 
whether  you  remember  where  Susan,  whom  you  were  so 
kiiid  as  to  accompany  to  the  coach-office  when  she  left 
me,  is  to  be  found.” 

“Why  I do  not  certainly.  Miss  Dombey,”  said  Mr. 
Toots,  after  a little  consideration,  “ remember  the  exact 
name  of  the  place  that  was  on  the  coach  ; and  I do 


426 


WOKKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


recollect  that  she  said  she  was  not  going  to  stop  there, 
but  was  going  farther  on.  But  Miss  Domhey,  if  your 
object  is  to  find  her,  and  to  have  her  here,  myself  and 
the  Chicken  will  produce  her  with  every  despatch  that 
devotion  on  my  part,  and  great  intelligence  on  the 
Chicken’s  can  insure.” 

Mr.  Toots  was  so  manifestly  delighted  and  revived  by 
til©  prospect  of  being  useful,  and  the  disinterested  sin- 
cerity of  his  devotion  was  so  unr^uestionable,  that  i’i 
would  have  been  cruel  to  refuse  him.  Florence,  with  an 
instinctive  delicacy,  forbore  to  urge  the  least  obstacle, 
though  she  did  not  forbear  to  overpower  him  with 
thanks ; and  Mr.  Toots  proudly  took  the  commission  on 
himself  for  immediate  execution. 

‘‘Miss Dombey,”said Mr.  Toots,  touchingher  proffered 
hand,  with  a pang  of  hopeless  love  visibly  shooting 
through  him,  and  flashing  out  in  his  face.  “ Good  bye  I 
Allow  me  to  take  the  liberty  of  saying,  that  your  mis- 
fortunes make  me  perfectly  wretched,  and  that  you  may 
trust  me,  next  to  Captain  Gills  himself.  I am  quite 
aware.  Miss  Dombey,  of  my  own  deflciences — they’r© 
not  of  the  least  consequence,  thank  you — but  I am  en- 
tirely to  be  relied  upon,  I do  assure  you.  Miss  Dombey.” 

With  that  Mr.  Toots  came  out  of  the  room  again,  ac- 
companied by  the  captain,  who,  standing  at  a little  dis- 
tance, holding  his  hat  under  his  arm  and  arranging  his 
scattered  locks  with  his  hook,  had  been  a not  uninter- 
ested witness  of  what  passed.  And  when  the  door  closed 
behind  them,  the  light  of  Mr.  Toots’s  life  darkly 
clouded  again. 

“ Captain  Gills,”  said  that  gentleman,  stopping  near 
the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  and  turning  round,  “ to  tell  you 
the  truth,  I am  not  in  a frame  of  mind  at  the  present 
moment,  in  which  I could  see  Lieutenant  Walters  with 
that  entirely  friendly  feeling  towards  him  that  I should 
wish  to  harbour  in  my  breast.  We  cannot  always  com- 
mand our  feelings,  Captain  Gills,  and  I should  take  it 
as  a particular  favour  if  you’d  let  me  out  at  the  private 
door.” 

“ Brother,”  returned  the  captain,  “ you  shall  shap» 
your  own  course.  Wotever  course  you  take,  is  plain 
and  seainanlike,  I’m  wery  sure.” 

“Captain  Gills,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  “you’re  extremely 
kind.  Your  good  opinion  is  a consolation  to  me.  There 
is  one  thing,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  standing  in  the  passage, 
behind  the  half -opened  door,  “ that  I’ll  hope  you’ll  bear 
in  mind.  Captain  Gills,  and  that  I should  wish  Lieuten- 
ant W alters  to  be  made  acquainted  with.  I have  quite 
come  into  my  property  now,  you  know,  and — and  I don’t 
know  what  to  do  with  it.  If  T could  be  at  all  useful  in  a 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


427 


pecuniary  point  of  view,  I should  glide  into  the  silent 
tomb  with  ease  and  smoothness. 

Mr.  Toots  said  no  more,  but  slipped  out  quietly  and 
shut  the  door  upon  himself,  to  cut  the  captain  off  from 
any  reply. 

Florence  thought  of  this  good  creature,  long  after  he 
had  left  her,  with  mingled  emotions  of  pain  and  pleas- 
ure. He  was  so  honest  and  warm-hearted,  that  to  see 
him  again  and  be  assured  of  his  truth  to  her  in  her  dis- 
tress, was  a joy  and  comfort  beyond  all  price  ; but  for 
that  very  reason,  it  was  so  affecting  to  think  that  she 
caused  him  a moment’s  unhappiness,  or  ruffled,  by  a 
breath,  the  harmless  current  of  his  life,  that  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  and  her  bosom  overflowed  with  pity. 
Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  different  way,  though  much  of 
Mr.  Toots  too  ; and  so  did  Walter  ; and  when  the  evening 
came,  and  they  were  all  sitting  together  in  Florence’s 
new  room,  Walter  praised  him  in  a most  impassioned 
manner,  and  told  Florence  what  he  had  said  upon  leav- 
ing the  house,  with  every  graceful  setting  off  in  the  way 
of  comment  and  appreciation  that  his  own  honesty  and 
sympathy  could  surround  it  with. 

Mr.  Toots  did  not  return  upon  the  next  day,  or  the 
next,  or  for  several  days  ; and  in  the  meanwhile  Flor- 
ence, without  any  new  alarm,  lived  like  a quiet  bird  in 
a cage,  at  the  top  of  the  old  Instrument-maker’s  house. 
But  Florence  drooped  and  hung  her  head  more  and  more 
plainly,  as  the  days  went  on ; and  the  expression  that 
had  been  seen  in  the  face  of  the  dead  child,  was  often 
turned  to  the  sky  from  her  high  window,  as  if  it  sought 
his  angel  out,  on  the  bright  shore  of  which  he  had 
spoken  : lying  on  his  little  bed. 

Florence  had  been  w^eak  and  delicate  of  late,  and  the 
agitation  she  had  undergone  was  not  without  its  influ- 
ences on  her  health.  But  it  was  no  bodily  illness  that 
affected  her  now.  She  was  distressed  in  mind  ; and  the 
cause  of  her  distress  was  Walter. 

Interested  in  her,  anxious  for  her,  proud  and  glad  to 
serve  her,  and  showing  all  this  with  the  enthusiasm  and 
ardour  of  his  character,  Florence  saw  that  he  avoided 
her.  AH  the  long  day  through,  he  seldom  approached 
her  room.  If  she  asked  for  him,  he  came,  again  for  the 
moment  as  earnest  and  as  bright  as  she  remembered  him 
when  she  was  a lost  child  in  the  staring  streets  ; but  he 
soon  became  constrained — her  quick  affection  was  too 
watchful  not  to  know  it — and  uneasy,  and  soon  left  her. 
Unsought,  he  never  came,  all  day,  between  the  morning 
and  the  night.  When  the  evening  closed  in,  he  was  al- 
ways there,  and  that  was  her  happiest  time,  for  then  she 
half  believed  that  the  old  Walter  of  her  childhood  was  not 
changed.  But,  even  then,  some  trivial  word,  look,  or  cir- 


m 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


cumstance  would  show  lier  that  there  was  an  indefinable 
division  between  them  which  could  not  be  passed. 

And  she  could  not  but  see  that  these  revealings  of  a 
great  alteration  in  Walter  manifested  themselves  in  de- 
spite of  his  utmost  efforts  to  hide  them.  In  his  consid- 
eration for  her,  she  thought,  and  in  the  earnestness  of 
his  desire  to  spare  her  any  wound  from  his  kind  hand,  he 
resorted  to  innumerable  little  artifices  and  disguises.  So 
much  the  more  did  Florence  feel  the  greatness  of  the 
alteration  in  him  ; so  much  the  oftener  did  she  weep  at 
this  estrangement  of  her  brother. 

The  good  captain — her  untiring,  tender,  ever  zealous 
friend — saw  it  too,  Florence  thought,  and  it  pained  him. 
He  was  less  cheerful  and  hopeful  than  he  had  been  at 
first,  and  would  steal  looks  at  her  and  Walter,  by  turns, 
when  they  were  all  three  together  of  an  evening,  with 
quite  a sad  face. 

Florence  resolved,  at  last,  to  speak  to  Walter.  She 
believed  she  knew  now  what  the  cause  of  his  estrange- 
ment was,  and  she  thought  it  would  be  a relief  to  her 
full  heart,  and  would  set  him  more  at  ease,  if  she  told 
him  she  had  found  it  out,  and  quite  submitted  to  it,  and 
did  not  reproach  him. 

It  was  on  a certain  Sunday  afternoon,  that  Florence 
took  this  resolution.  The  faithful  caj^tain,  in  an  amazing 
shirt-collar,  was  sitting  by  her,  reading  with  his  specta- 
cles on,  and  she  asked  him  where  Walter  was. 

‘‘  I think  he’s  down  below,  my  lady  lass,”  returned  the 
captain. 

I should  like  to  speak  to  him,”  said  Florence,  rising 
• hurriedly,  as  if  to  go  down-stairs. 

ril  rouse  him  up  here.  Beauty,  ” said  the  captain, 

in  a trice.  ” 

Thereupon  the  captain,  with  much  alacrity,  shouldered 
his  book — for  he  made  it  a point  of  duty  to  read  none  but 
very  large  books  on  a Sunday,  as  having  a more  staid 
appearance  : and  had  bargained,  years  ago,  fora  prodigi- 
ous volume  at  a book-stall,  five  lines  of  which  utterly  con- 
founded him  at  any  time,  inasmuch  that  he  had  not  yet 
ascertained  of  what  subject  it  treated — and  withdrew. 
Walter  soon  appeared. 

‘‘  Captain  Cuttle  tells  me.  Miss  Dombey,” — he  eagerly 
began  on  coming  in — but  stopped  wdien  he  saw  her  face. 

‘‘You  are  not  so  well  to-day.  You  look  dist^'essed. 
You  have  been  weeping.” 

He  spoke  so  kindly,  and  with  such  a fervent  tremour 
in  his  voice,  that  the  tears  gushed  into  her  eyes  at  the 
sound  of  his  words. 

“Walter,”  said  Florence,  gently,  “I  am  not  quit© 
well,  and  Fve  been  weeping.  I want  to  speak  to  you. 

He  sat  down  opposite  to  her,  looking  at  her  beautiful 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


429 


and  innocent  face  ; and  his  own  turned  pale,  and  his  lips 
trembled. 

You  said,  upon  the  night  when  I knew  that  you  were 
saved — and  oh  ! dear  Walter,  what  I felt  that  night,  and 
what  I hoped  ! ” — 

He  put  his  trembling  hand  upon  the  table  between 

them,  and  sat  looking  at  her. 

— that  I was  changed.  I was  surprised  to  hear  you 
say  so,  but  I understand,  now,  that  I am.  Don't  be  an- 
gry with  me,  W'alter.  I was  too  much  overjoyed  to  think 
of  it,  then.” 

She  seemed  a child  to  him  again.  It  was  the  ingenu- 
ous, confiding,  loving  child,  he  saw  and  heard.  Not  the 
dear  woman,  at  whose  feet  he  would  have  laid  the  riches 
of  the  earth. 

‘‘You  remem  ember  the  last  time  I saw  you,  Walter, 
before  you  went  away  ? ” 

He  put  his  hand  into  his  breast,  and  took  out  a little 
purse. 

“ I have  always  worn  it  round  my  neck  I If  I had 
gone  down  in  the  deep,  it  would  have  been  with  me  m 
the  bottom  of  the  sea.” 

“And  you  will  wear  it  still,  Walter,  foi  my  old 
sake  ? ” 

“ Until  I die  ! ” 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his,  as  fearlessly  and  simply,  as 
if  not  a day  had  intervened  since  she  gave  him  the  little 
token  of  remembrance. 

“ I am  glad  of  that.  I shall  be  always  glad  to  think 
so,  Walter.  Do  you  recollect  that  a thought  of  this 
change  seemed  to  come  into  our  minds  at  the  same  time 
that  evening,  when  we  were  talking  together 

“ No  ! ” he  answered,  in  a wondering  tone. 

“Yes,  Walter,  i had  been  the  means  of  injuring  your 
hopes  and  prospects  even  then.  I feared  to  think  so, 

then,  but  I know  it  now.  If  you  were  able,  then,  in 
your  generosity,  to  hide  from  me  that  you  knew  it  too, 
you  cannot  do  it  now,  although  you  try  as  generously  as 
before.  You  do.  I thank  you  for  it,  Walter,  deeply, 
truly  ; but  you  cannot  succeed.  You  have  suffered  too 
much  in  your  own  hardships,  and  in  those  of  your  dear- 
est relation,  quite  to  overlook  the  innocent  cause  of  all 
the  peril  and  affliction  that  has  befallen  you.  You  can- 
not quite  forget  me  in  that  character,  and  we  can  be 
brother  and  sister  no  longer.  But,  dear  Walter,  do  no^ 
think  that  I complain  of  you  in  this.  I might  have 
known  it — ought  to  have  known  it — but  forgot  it  in  my 
joy.  All  I hope  is  that  you  may  think  of  me  less  irk- 
somely when  this  feeling  is  no  more  a secret  one  ; and 
all  I ask  is,  Walter,  in  the  name  of  the  poor  child  who 
was  your  sister  once,  that  you  will  not  struggle  with 


430 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


yourself,  and  pain  yourself,  for  my  sake,  now  that  I 
know  all.’’ 

Walter  had  looked  upon  her  while  she  said  this,  with, 
a face  so  full  of  wonder  and  amazement,  that  it  had  room 
for  nothing  else.  Now  he  caught  up  the  hand  that 
touched  his  so  entreatingly,  and  held  it  between  his  own. 

""  Oh,  Miss  Dombey,”  he  said,  “is  it  possible  that  while 
I have  been  suffering  so  much,  in  striving  with  my  sense 
of  what  is  due  to  you,  and  must  be  rendered  to  you,  i 
have  made  you  suffer  what  your  words  disclose  to  me. 
Never,  never,  before  Heaven,  have  I thought  of  you  but 
as  the  single  bright,  pure,  blessed  recollection  of  my 
boyhood  and  my  youth.  Never  iiave  I from  the  first, 
and  never  shall  I to  the  last,  regard  your  part  in  my  life, 
but  as  something  sacred,  never  to  be  lightly  thought  of, 
never  to  be  esteemed  enough,  never,  until  death,  to  be 
forgotten.  Again  to  see  you  look,  and  hear  you  speak, 
as  you  did  on  that  night  when  we  parted,  is  happiness  to 
me  that  there  are  no  words  to  utter  ; and  to  be  loved  and 
trusted  as  your  brother,  is  the  next  grand  gift  I could  re- 
ceive and  prize  ! ” 

“ Walter,”  said  Florence,  looking  at  him  earnestly, 
but  with  a changing  face,  “ what  is  that  which  is  due  to 
me,  and  must  be  rendered  to  me,  at  the  sacrifice  of  all 
this?” 

“Respect,”  said  Walter,  in  a low  tone.  “Rever- 
ence.” 

The  colour  dawned  in  her  face,  and  she  timidly  and 
thoughtfully  withdrew  her  hand  ; still  looking  at  him 
with  unabated  earnestness. 

“ I have  not  a brother’s  right,”  said  Walter.  I have 
not  a brother’s  claim.  I left  a child.  I find  a woman.” 

The  colour  overspread  her  face.  She  made  a gesture 
as  if  of  entreaty  that  he  would  say  no  more,  and  her  face 
dropped  upon  her  hands. 

They  were  both  silent  for  a time  ; she  weeping. 

“ I owe  it  to  a heart  so  trusting,  pure,  and  good,”  said 
Walter,  “ even  to  tear  myself  from  it,  though  I rend  my 
own.  How  dare  I say  it  is  my  sister’s  !” 

She  was  weeping  still. 

“If  you  had  been  happy  ; surrounded  as  you  should 
be  by  loving  and  admiring  friends,  and  by  all  that  makes 
the  station  you  were  born  to  enviable,”  said  Walter ; 
“and  if  you  had  called  me  brother,  then,  in  your  affeo 
tion  remembrance  of  the  past,  I could  have  answered  to 
the  name  from  my  distant  place,  with  no  inward  assur- 
ance that  I wronged  your  spotless  truth  by  doing  sOc 
But  here — and  now  ! — 

Oh  thank  you,  thank  you,  Walter  ! Forgive  my 
liaving  wronged  you  so  much.  I had  no  one  to  advi&e 
me,  I am  quite  alone/’ 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


431 


"^Florettice  said  Walter,  passionately,  ^‘1  am  hur- 
ried on  to  say,  what  I thought,  hut  a few  moments  ago, 
nothing  could  have  forced  from  my  lips.  If  I had  been 
prosperous ; if  I had  any  means  or  hope  of  being  one  day 
able  to  restore  you  to  a station  near  your  own  ; I would 
have  told  you  that  there  was  one  name  you  might  be^ 
stow  upon  me— a right  above  all  others,  to  protect  and 
cherish  you — that  I was  worthy  of  in  nothing  but  the 
love  and  honour  that  I bore  you,  and  in  my  whole  heart 
being  yours.  I would  have  told  you  that  it  was  the  only 
claim  that  you  could  give  me  to  defend  and  guard  you, 
which  I dare  accept  and  dare  assert ; but  that  if  I had 
that  right,  I would  regard  it  as  a trust  so  precious  and  so 
priceless,  that  the  undivided  truth  and  fervour  of  my 
life  would  poorly  acknowledge  its  worth.” 

The  head  was  still  bent  down,  the  tears  still  falling, 
and  the  bosom  swelling  with  its  sobs. 

Dear  Florence  ! dearest  Florence  ! whom  I called  so 
in  my  thoughts  before  I could  consider  how  presumptu* 
Qus  and  wild  it  was.  One  last  time  let  me  call  you  by 
your  own  dear  name,  and  touch  this  gentle  hand  in 
token  of  your  sisterly  forgetfulness  of  what  I have  said,” 

She  raised  her  head,  and  spoke  to  him  with  such  a 
solemn  sweetness  in  her  eyes  ; with  such  a calm,  bright, 
placid  smile  shining  on  him  through  her  tears  ; with 
such  a low,  soft  tremble  in  her  frame  and  voice  ; that  the 
innermost  chords  of  his  heart  were  touched,  and  his 
sight  was  dim  as  he  listened. 

No  Walter,  I cannot  forget  it.  I would  not  forget 
it,  for  the  world.  Are  you — are  you  very  poor  ? ” 

“I  am  but  a wanderer,”  said  Walter,  ‘‘making  voy 
eges  to  live  across  the  sea.  That  is  my  calling  now.” 

“ Are  you  soon  going  away  again,  Walter?” 

“ Very  soon.” 

She  sat  looking  at  him  for  a moment  ; then  timidly 
put  her  trembling  hand  in  his. 

“ If  you  will  take  me  for  your  wife,  W^’alter,  I will 
love  you  dearly.  If  you  will  let  me  go  with  you,  Wal- 
ter, I will  go  to  the  world’s  end  without  fear.  I can 
give  up  nothing  for  you — I have  nothing  to  resign,  and 
no  one  to  forsake  ; but  all  my  love  and  life  shall  be  de- 
voted to  you,  and  with  my  last  breath  I will  breathe 
your  name  to  God  if  I have  sense  and  memory  left.” 

He  caught  her  to  his  heart,  and  laid  her  cheek  against 
his  own,  and  now,  no  more  repulsed,  no  more  forlorn, 
she  wept  indeed,  upon  the  breast  of  her  dear  lover. 

Blessed  Sunday  bells,  ringing  so  tranquilly  in  their 
entranced  and  happy  ears  ! Blessed  Sunday  peace  and 
quiet,  harmonising  with  the  calmness  in  their  souls,  and 
making  holy  air  around  them  ! Blessed  twilight  steal- 
ing on>  and  shading  her  so  soothingly  and  gravely,  as 


432 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


she  falls  asleep,  like  a hushed  child,  upon  the  hosoin 
she  has  clung  to  I 

O load  of  love  and  trustfulness  that  lies  so  lightly 
there  ! Ay,  look  dovvn  on  the  closed  eyes,  Walter,  with 
a proudly  tender  gaze  ; for  in  all  the  wide  wide  world 
they  seek  but  thee  now — only  thee  ! 

The  captain  remained  in  the  little  parlour  until  it  was 
quite  dark.  He  took  the  chair  on  which  Walter  had 
been  sitting,  and  looked  up  at  the  skylight,  until  the 
day,  by  little  and  little,  faded  awa,y,  and  the  stars 
peeped  down.  He  lighted  a candle,  lighted  a pipe, 
smoked  it  out,  and  wondered  what  on  earth  was  going 
on  up-stairs,  and  why  they  didn’t  call  him  to  tea. 

Florence  came  to  his  side  while  he  was  in  the  height 
of  his  wonderment. 

Ay  I lady  lass  ! ” cried  the  captain.  Why,  you 
and  WaTr  have  had  a long  spell  o’  talk,  my  beauty.” 

Florence  put  her  little  hand  round  one  of  the  great 
buttons  of  his  coat,  and  said,  looking  down  into  his  face  . 

“ Dear  captain,  I want  to  tell  you  something,  if  you 
please.” 

The  captain  raised  his  head  pretty  smartly,  to  hear 
what  it  was.  Catching  by  this  means  a more  distinct 
view  of  Florence,  he  pushed  back  his  chair,  and  himself 
with  it  as  far  as  they  could  go. 

What  ! Heart’s  Delight !”  cried  the  captain,  sud- 
denly elated.  'Hs  it  that  ? ” 

‘^Yes  !”  said  Florence,  eagerly. 

WaTr ! Husband!  That?”  roared  the  captain, 
tossing  up  his  glazed  hat  into  the  skylight. 

Yes  ! ” cried  Florence,  laughing  and  crying  together. 

The  captain  immediately  hugged  her ; and  then, 
picking  up  the  glazed  hat  and  putting  it  on,  drew  her 
arm  through  his,  and  conducted  her  up-stairs  again  , 
where  he  felt  that  the  great  joke  of  his  life  was  now  to 
be  made. 

What,  Wal’r  my  lad  ! ” said  the  captain,  looking  in 
at  the  door,  with  his  face  like  an  amiable  warming  pan. 

So  there  an’t  NO  other  character,  ain’t  there  ?” 

He  had  like  to  have  suffocated  himself  with  this  pleas* 
antry,  which  he  repeated  at  least  forty  times  during  tea; 
polishing  his  radiant  face  with  the  sleeve  of  his  coat, 
and  dabbing  his  head  all  over  with  his  pocket-handker- 
chief, in  the  intervals.  But  he  was  not  without  a gravel 
source  of  enjoyment  to  fall  back  upon,  when  so  disposed, 
for  he  was  repeatedly  heard  to  say  in  an  under  tone,  as 
he  looked  with  ineffable  delight  at  Walter  and  Flor- 
ence ‘ 

‘*Ed’ard  Cuttle',  my  lad,  you  never  shaped  a better 


DOMBSY  AND  SON. 


4‘db 

course  in  your  life,  than  when  you  made  that  there  lit- 
tle property  over,  jintly  ! 


CHAPTER  LI. 

Mr.  Dcnnhey  and  the  World. 

What  is  the  proud  man  doing,  while  the  days  go  by^ 
Does  he  ever  think  of  his  daughter,  or  wonder  where 
she  is  gone  ? Does  he  suppose  she  has  come  home  ? and 
is  leading  her  old  life  in  the  weary  house  ? No  one  can 
answer  for  him.  He  has  never  uttered  her  name,  since. 
Ilis  household  dread  him  too  much  to  approach  a subject 
on  which  he  is  resolutely  dumb ; and  the  only  person 
who  dare  question  him,  he  silences  immediately. 

My  dear  Paul !”  murmurs  his  sister,  sidling  into  the 
room,  on  the  day  of  Florence’s  departure,  ‘"your  wife 
that  upstart  woman  ! Is  it  possible  that  what  I hear 
confusedly,  is  true,  and  that  this  is  her  return  for  your 
unparalleled  devotion  to  her  ; extending,  I am  sure,  eve^ 
to  the  sacrifice  of  your  own  relations,  to  her  caprices  and 
haughtiness  ? My  poor  brother  ! ” 

With  this  speech,  feelingly  reminiscent  of  her  not  hav- 
ing been  asked  to  dinner  on  the  day  of  the  first  party, 
Mrs.  Chick  makes  great  use  of  her  pocket-handkerchief, 
and  falls  on  Mr.  Dombey’s  neck.  But  Mr,  Dombey 
frigidly  lifts  her  off,  and  hands  her  to  a chair. 

“I  thank  you,  Louisa,’’  he  says,  “ for  this  mark  of 
your  affection  ; but  desire  that  our  conversation  may  re- 
fer to  any  other  subject.  When  I bewail  my  fate, 
Louisa,  or  express  myself  as  being  in  want  of  consolation, 
you  can  offer  it,  if  ^mu  will  have  the  goodness.” 

“ My  dear  Paul,”  rejoins  his  sister,  v/ith  her  hand- 
kerchief to  her  face,  and  shaking  her  head,  “ I know 
your  great  spirit,  and  will  say  no  more  upon  a theme  so 
painful  and  revolting  ; ” on  the  heads  of  which  two  ad- 
jectives, Mrs.  Chick  visits  scathing  indignation  ; “ but 
pray  let  me  ask  you — though  I dread  to  hear  something 
that  will  shock  and  distress  rne—that  unfortunate  child 
Florence — ” 

“ Louisa  I ” says  her  brother,  sternly,  “ silence.  Not 
another  word  of  this  1 ” 

Mrs.  Chick  can  only  shake  her  head,  and  use  her 
handkerchief,  and  moan  over  degenerate  Dombeys,  who 
are  no  Dombeys.  But  whether  Florence  has  been  in- 
culpated in  the  flight  of  Edith,  or  has  followed  her,  or 
has  done  too  much,  or  too  little,  or  anything,  or  nothing 
she  has  not  the  least  idea. 

He  goes  on,  without  deviation,  keeping  his  thonghts 

VoL.  12-  — 


434 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


and  feelings  close  within  his  own  breast,  and  imparting 
them  to  no  one.  He  makes  no  search  for  his  daughter, 
fie  may  think  that  she  is  with  his  sister,  or  that  she  is 
under  his  own  roof.  He  may  think  of  her  constantly,  or 
he  may  never  think  about  her.  It  is  all  one  for  any  sign 
he  makes. 

But  this  is  sure  ; he  does  not  think  that  he  has  lost 
her.  He  has  no  suspicion  of  the  truth.  He  has  lived 
too  long  shut  up  in  his  towering  supremacy,  seeing  her, 
a patient  gentle  creature,  in  the  path  below  it,  to  have 
any  fear  of  that.  Shaken  as  he  is  by  his  disgrace,  he  is 
not  yet  humbled  to  the  level  earth.  The  root  is  broad 
and  deep,  and  in  the  course  of  years  its  fibres  have 
spread  out  and  gathered  nourishment  from  everything 
around  it.  The  tree  is  struck,  but  not  down. 

Though  he  hide  the  world  within  him  from  the 
world  without — v/hich  he  believes  has  but  one  purpose 
for  the  time,  and  that  to  watch  him  eagerly  wherever 
he  goes — he  cannot  hide  those  rebel  traces  of  it,  which 
escape  in  hollow  eyes  and  cheeks,  a haggard  forehead, 
and  a moody,  brooding  air.  Impenetrable  as  before,  he 
is  still  an  altered  man  ; and,  proud  as  ever,  he  is  hum- 
bled, or  those  marks  would  not  be  there. 

The  world.  What  the  world  thinks  of  him,  how  it 
looks  at  him,  what  it  sees  in  him,  and  what  it  says — this 
is  the  haunting  demon  of  his  mind.  It  is  everywhere 
where  he  is  ; and  worse  than  that,  it  is  everywhere  where 
he  is  not.  It  comes  out  with  him  among  his  servants 
and  yet  he  leaves  it  whispering  behind  ; he  sees  it  point- 
ing after  him  in  the  street  ; it  is  waiting  for  him  in  his 
counting-house  ; it  leers  over  the  shoulders  of  rich  men 
among  the  merchants  ; it  going  beckoning  and  babbling 
among  the  crowd  ; it  always  anticipates  him,  in  every 
place  ; and  is  always  busiest,  he  knows,  when  he  has 
gone  away.  When  he  is  shut  up  in  his  room  at  night, 
it  is  in  his  house,  outside  it,  audible  in  footsteps  on  the 
pavement,  visible  in  print  upon  the  table,  steaming  to 
and  fro  on  railroads  and  in  ships  : restless  and  busy 
everywhere,  with  nothing  else  but  him. 

It  is  not  a phantom  of  his  imagination.  It  is  as  active 
in  other  people’s  minds  as  in  his.  Witness  Cousin  Fee- 
nix,  who  comes  from  Baden-Baden,  purposely  to  talk 
to  him.  Witness  Major  Bagstock,  who  accompanies 
Cousin  Peenix  on  that  friendly  mission. 

Mr.  Dombey  receives  them  with  his  usual  dignity,  and 
stands  erect,  in  his  old  attitude,  before  the  fire.  He  feels 
that  the  world  is  looking  at  him  out  of  their  eyes.  That 
it  is  in  the  stare  of  the  pictures.  That  Mr.  Pitt,  upon 
the  book-case,  represents  it.  That  there  are  eyes  in  its 
©wn  map,  hanging  on  the  wall. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


®'Aii  unusually  cold  spring,”  says  Mr.  Dombey — to 
deceive  tbe  world. 

“ Damme,  sir,”  said  the  major,  in  tbe  warmth,  of  friend- 
ship, **  Joseph  Bagstock  is  a bad  hand  at  the  counterfeit. 
If  you  want  to  hold  yonr  friends  off,  Dombey,  and  to 
give  them  the  cold  shoulder,  J.  B.  is  not  the  man  for 
your  purpose.  Joe  is  iWgh  and  tough,  sir  ; blunt,  sir, 
blunt,  is  Joe.  His  Royal  Highness  the  late  Duke  of 
York  did  me  the  honour  to  say,  deservedly  or  undeserv 
edly — never  mind  that — ' If  there  is  a man  in  the  service 
on  whom  I can  depend  for  coming  to  the  point,  that  man 
is  Joe — Joe  Bagstock.” 

Mr.  Dombey  intimates  his  acquiescence. 

Now,  Dombey,”  says  the  major,  ‘‘  I am  a man  of  the 
world.  Our  friend  Feenix — if  I may  presume  to — ” 

‘ ‘ Honoured,  I am  sure,”  said  Cousin  Feenix. 

‘‘ — is,”  proceeds  the  major,  with  a wag  of  his  headj 
also  a man  of  the  world.  Dombey,  you  are  a man  of 
the  world.  Now,  when  three  men  of  the  world  meet  to- 
gether, and  are  friends — as  I believe—”  again  appealing 
to  Cousin  Feenix. 

I am  sure,”  says  Cousin  Feenix,  **  most  friendly.” 

**  —and  are  friends,”  resumes  the  major,  “ Old  Joe’s 
opinion  is  (J.  may  be  v/rong),  that  the  opinion  of  the 
world  on  any  particular  subject,  is  very  easily  got  at.” 

Undoubtedly,”  says  Cousin  Feenix.  “ In  point  of 
fact,  it’s  quite  a self-evident  sort  of  thing.  I am  ex- 
tremely anxious,  major,  that  my  friend  Dombey  should 
hear  me  express  my  very  great  astonishment  and  regret, 
that  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative,  who  was  pos- 
sessed of  every  qualification  to  make  a man  happy,  should 
have  so  far  forgotten  what  was  due  to — in  point  of  fact 
to  the  world— as  to  commit  herself  in  such  a very  ex- 
traordinary manner.  I have  been  in  a devilish  state  of 
depression  ever  since  ; and  said  indeed  to  long  Saxby 
last  night — man  of  six  foot  ten,  with  whom  my  friend 
Dombey  is  probably  acquainted — that  it  had  upset  me  in 
a confounded  way,  and  made  me  bilious.  It  induces  a 
man  to  reflect,  this  kind  of  fatal  catastrophe,”  says 
Cousin  Feenix,  "'that  events  do  occur  in  quite  a Provi- 
dential manner  ; for  if  my  aunt  had  been  living  at  the 
time,  I think  the  effect  upon  a devilish  lively  woman  like 
nerself,  would  have  been  prostration,  and  that  she  would 
have  fallen,  in  point  of  fact,  a victim.” 

"Now,  Dombey  !— ” says  the  major,  resuming  his  dls 
course  with  great  energy. 

" I beg  your  pardon,  interposes  Cousin  Feenix.  Al- 
low me  another  word.  My  friend  Dombey  will  permit 
that  if  aMj  ckcumstances  could  have  added  to  the  mos^ 
infernal  state  ®f  pain  in  which  I find  myself  on  this  oc- 
caasioM,  it  would  be  Mie  natural  amusement  of  the  worlit 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


at  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative  (as  I must  still 
beg  leave  to  call  her)  being  supposed  to  have  so  com- 
mitted herself  with  a person — man  with  white  teeth,  in 
point  of  fact — of  very  inferior  station  to  her  husband. 
But  Avhile  I must,  rather  peremptorily,  request  my  friend 
Dombey  not  to  criminate  my  lovely  and  accomplished 
relative  until  her  criminality  is  perfectly  established,  I 
beg  to  assure  my  friend  Dombey  that  the  family  I repre- 
sent, and  which  is  now  almost*  extinct  (devilish  sad  re^ 
flection  for  a man),  will  interpose  no  obstacle  his  way. 
and  will  be  happy  to  assent  to  any  honourable  course  of 
proceeding,  with  a viev/  to  the  future,  that  he  may  point 
out.  I trust  my  friend  Dombey  will  give  me  credit  for 
the  intentions  by  which  I am  animated  in  this  very  mel- 
ancholy affair,  and-— a — in  point  of  fact,  I am  not  aware 
that  I need  trouble  my  friend  Dombey  with  any  further 
observations.” 

Mr.  Dombey  bows,  without  raising  his  eyes,  and  is  si 
ient. 

“ Now,  Dombey,”  says  the  major,  our  friend  Feenix 
having,  with  an  amount  of  eloquence  that  old  Joe  B.  has 
never  heard  surpassed — no,  by  the  Lord,  sir  ! never  1 ” — 
says  the  major,  very  blue,  indeed,  and  grasping  his  cane 
in  the  middle — ‘‘stated  the  case  as  regards  the  lady,  I 
shall  presume  upon  our  friendship,  Dombey,  to  offer  a 
word  on  another  aspect  of  it.  Sir,”  says  the  major,  with 
the  horse’s  cough,  “ the  world  in  these  things  has  opin- 
ions, which  must  be  satisfied.” 

“ I know  it,”  rejoins  Mr.  Dombey. 

Of  course  you  know  it,  Dombey,”  says  the  major 
‘Damme,  sir,  I know  you  know  it.  A man  of  your  cal 
ibre  is  not  likely  to  be  ignorant  of  it.” 

“ T hope  not,”  replies  Mr.  Dombey. 

Dombey  ! ” says  the  major,  “ you  will  guess  the  rest. 
1 speak  out — prematurely, perhaps — because  the  Bagstock 
breed  have  always  spoken  out.  Little,  sir,  have  they 
©ver  got  by  doing  it  ; but  it’s  in  the  Bagstock  blood.  A 
shot  is  to  be  taken  at  this  man.  You  have  J.  B.  at  your 
elbow.  He  claims  the  name  of  friend.  God  bless  you  !” 

“ Major,  ” returns  Mr.  Dombey,  “ I am  obliged.  I 
shall  put  myself  in  your  hands  when  the  time  comes. 
The  time  not  being  come,  I have  forborne  to  speak  to 
you.” 

“Where  is  the  fellow,  Dombey?”  inquires  the  ma- 
jor, after  gasping  and  looking  at  him,  for  a minute. 

“ I don’t  know.” 

“ Any  intelligence  of  him  ? ” asks  the  major. 

“Yes.” 

“ Dombey,  I am  rejoiced  to  hear  it,”  says  the  major, 
congratulate  you.” 

“You  will  excuse — even  you,  major,”  replies  Mr. 


DOMBBY  AND  SON. 


437 


Dombey,  my  entering  into  any  further  detail  at  pres*, 
ent.  The  intelligence  is  of  a singular  kind,  and  singu- 
larly  obtained.  It  may  turn  out  to  be  valueless  ; it  may 
turn  out  to  be  true  ; I cannot  say  at  present.  My  ex- 
planation must  stop  here.” 

Although  this  is  but  a dry  reply  to  the  major’s  purple 
enthusiasm,  the  major  receives  it  graciously,  and  is  de- 
lighted to  think  that  the  world  has  such  a fair  prospect 
of  soon  receiving  its  due.  Cousin  Feenix  is  then  pre- 
sented with  his  meed  of  acknowledgment  by  the  hus- 
band of  his  lovely  and  accomplished  relative,  and  Cousin 
Feenix  and  Major  Bagstock  retire,  leaving  that  husband 
to  the  v/orld  again,  and  to  ponder  at  leisure  on  their 
representation  of  its  state  of  mind  concerning  his  affairs, 
and  on  its  j ust  and  reasonable  expectations. 

But  v/ho  sits  in  the  housekeeper’s  room,  shedding 
tears  and  talking  to  Mrs.  Pipchin  in  a low  tone,  with  up- 
lifted hands  ? It  is  a lady  with  her  face  concealed  in  a 
very  close,  black  bonnet,  which  appears  not  to  belong  to 
her.  It  is  Miss  Tox,  who  has  borrowed  this  disguise 
from  her  servant,  and  comes  from  Princess’s-place,  thus 
secretly,  to  revive  her  old  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin,  in  order  to  get  certain  information  of  the  state  of 
Mr.  DombeVo 

How  does  he  bear  it,  my  dear  creature  ? ” asks  Miss 
Tox. 

Well,”  says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  in  her  snappish  way, 

he’s  pretty  much  as  usual. 

Externally,”  suggests  Miss  Tox.  “ But  what  he 
feels  within  ! ” 

Mrs.  Pipchin ’s  hard  gray  eyes  look  doubtful  as  she 
answe«*s,  in  three  distinct  jerks,  **  Ah  ! Perhaps.  1 
suppose  so.” 

To  tell  you  my  mind,  Lucretia,”  says  Mrs.  Pipchin  ; 
she  still  calls  Miss  Tox  Lucretia,  on  account  of  having 
made  her  first  experiments  in  the  child-quelling-line  of 
business  on  that  lady,  when  an  unfortunate  and  weazen 
little  girl  of  tender  years  ; to  tell  you  my  mind,  Lu- 
cretia, I think  it’s  a good  riddance.  I don’t  want  any  of 
your  brazen  faces  here,  myself  ! ” 

Brazen  indeed  ! Weil  may  you  say  brazen,  Mrs. 
Pipchin  I ” returned  Miss  Tox.  To  leave  him  * Such 
a noble  figure  of  a man  ! ” And  here  Miss  Tox  is  over- 
come. 

I don’t  know  about  noble.  I’m  sure,”  observed  Mrs. 
Pipchin  irascibly  rubbing  her  nose.  But  I know  this 
— that  when  people  meet  with  trials,  they  must  beai 
’em.  Hoity,  toity  ! I have  had  enough  to  bear  myself, 
in  my  time  ! What  a fuss  there  is  ! She’s  gone,  and 
well  got  rid  of.  Nobody  wants  her  back,  I should 
think  ! ” 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


This  hm^  of  the  Peruvian  Mines,  causes  Miss  Tox  to 
rise  to  go  f:,way ; when  Mrs.  Pipchin  rings  the  bell  for 
Towlinson  to  show  her  out.  Mr.  Towlinson,  not  having 
seen  Miss  Tox  for  ages,  grins,  and  hopes  she’s  well ; ob- 
serving that  he  didn’t  know  her  at  first,  in  that  bonnet. 

Pretty  well,  Towlinson,  I thank  you,”  says  Miss  Tox. 
“ I beg  you’ll  have  the  goodness,  when  you  happen  to 
see  me  here,  not  to  mention  it.  My  visits  are  merely  to 
Mrs.  Pipchin.” 

**  Very  good,  miss,”  says  Towlinson. 

Shocking  circumstances  occur,  Towlinson,”  says  Miss 
Tox. 

**  Very  much  so  indeed,  miss,”  rejoins  Towlinson. 

**  1 hope,  Towlinson,”  says  Miss  Tox,  who,  in  her  in- 
struction of  the  Tcodle  family  has  acquired  an  admoni- 
torial  tone,  and  a habit  of  improving  passing  occasions, 
^*that  what  has  happened  here,  will  be  a warning  to  you, 
Towlinson.” 

“Thank  you,  miss,  I’m  sure,”  says  Towlinson. 

He  appears  to  be  falling  into  a consideration  of  the 
manner  in  which  this  warning  ought  to  operate  in  his 
particular  case,  when  the  vinegary  Mrs.  Pipchin,  sud- 
denly stirring  him  up  with  a “ What  are  you  doing  i 
Why  don’t  you  show  the  lady  to  the  door  I ” he  ushers 
Miss  Tox  forth.  As  she  passes  Mr.  Dombey’s  room,  she 
shrinks  into  the  inmost  depths  of  the  black  bonnet,  and 
walks  on  tiptoe  ; and  there  is  not  another  atom  in  the 
world  which  haunts  him  so,  that  feels  such  sorrow  and 
solicitude  about  him,  as  Miss  Tox  takes  out  under  the 
black  bonnet  into  the  street,  and  tries  to  carry  home 
shadowed  from  newly-lighted  lamps. 

But  Miss  Tox  is  not  a part  of  Mr.  Dombey’s  world. 
She  comes  back  every  evening  at  dusk  ; adding  clogs  and 
an  umbrella  to  the  bonnet  on  wet  nights  ; and  bears  the 
grins  of  Towlinson,  and  the  huffs  and  rebuffs  of  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin, and  all  to  ask  how  he  does,  and  how  he  bears  his 
misfortune  ; but  she  has  nothing  to  do  with  Mr.  Dom- 
bey’s world.  Exacting  and  harassing  as  ever,  it  goes  on 
without  her  ; and  she,  a by  no  means  bright  or  particu- 
lar star,  moves  in  her  little  orbit  in  the  comer  of  an- 
other system,  and  knows  it  quite  well,  and  comes,  and 
cries,  and  goes  away,  and  is  satisfied.  Verily  Miss  Tox 
is  easier  of  satisfaction  than  the  world  that  troubles  Mr. 
Dombey  so  much  ! 

At  the  counting-house,  the  clerks  discuss  the  great  dis- 
aster in  all  its  lights  and  shades,  but  chiefly  wonder  who 
will  get  Mr.  Carker’s  place.  They  are  generally  of  opin- 
ion that  it  will  be  shorn  of  some  of  its  emoluments,  and 
made  uncomfortable  by  newly  devised  checks  and  re- 
strictions ; and  those  who  are  beyond  all  hope  of  it. 


IT  APPEARS  THAT  HE  MET  EVERYBODY  CONCERNED  IN  THE  LATE  TRANSACTION,  EVERYWHERE. 

— Dombey  and  Son,  Vol.  Twelve,  page  439 


440 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


are  quite  sure  they  would  rather  not  have  it,  and  don’t 
at  all  envy  the  person  for  whom  it  may  prove  to  be  re- 
served, Nothing  like  the  prevailing  sensation  has  ex- 
isted in  the  counting-house  since  Mr.  Dombey’s  little  son 
died  • but  all  such  excitements  there  take  a social,  not  to 
say  jovial  turn,  and  lead  to  the  cultivation  of  good  fellow, 
ship.  A reconciliation  is  established  on  this  propitious 
occasion  between  the  acknowledged  wit  of  the  counting- 
house  and  an  aspiring  rival,  with  whom  he  has  been  at 
deadly  fued  for  months  ; and  a little  dinner  being  pro- 
posed, in  commemoration  of  their  happily  restored  amity, 
takes  place  at  a neighbouring  tavern  ; the  wit  in  the 
chair  ; the  rival  acting  as  Vice-President.  The  orations 
following  the  removal  of  the  cloth  are  opened  by  the? 
chair,  who  says,  gentlemen,  he  can’t  disguise  from  him- 
self that  this  is  not  a time  for  private  dissensions. 
Eecent  ocurrences  to  which  he  need  not  more  particu^ 
larly  allude,  but  which  have  not  been  altogether  with° 
out  notice  in  some  Sunday  papers,  and  in  a daily  papet 
which  he  need  not  name  (here  every  other  member  of 
the  company  names  it  in  an  audible  murmur),  have 
caused  him  to  reflect ; and  he  feels  that  for  him  and 
Robinson  to  have  any  personal  differences  at  such  a mo- 
ment, would  be  for  ever  to  deny  that  good  feeling  in  the 
general  cause,  for  which  he  has  reason  to  think  and  hope 
that  the  gentlemen  in  Dombey’s  house  have  always  been 
distinguished.  Robinson  replies  to  this  like  a man  and  a 
brother  ; and  one  gentleman  who  has  been  in  the  office 
three  years  under  continual  notice  to  quit  on  account  of 
lapses  in  his  arithmetic,  appears  in  a perfectly  new  light, 
suddenly  bursting  out  with  a thrilling  speech,  in  which 
he  says.  May  their  respected  chief  never  again  know  the 
desolation  which  has  fallen  on  his  hearth  ! and  says  a 
great  variety  of  things,  beginning  with  ‘‘  May  he  never 
again,”  which  are  received  with  thunders  of  applause. 
In  short,  a most  delightful  evening  is  passed,  only  inter* 
rupted  by  a difference  between  two  juniors,  who,  quar- 
relling  about  the  probable  amount  of  Mr.  Carker’s  late 
receipts  per  annum,  defy  each  other  with  decanters,  and 
are  taken  out  greatly  excited.  Soda  water  is  in  general 
request  at  the  office  next  day,  and  most  of  the  party  deem, 
the  bill  an  imposition. 

As  to  Perch,  the  messenger,  he  is  in  a fair  way  of  being 
ruined  for  life.  He  finds  himself  again,  constantly  in 
bars  of  public  houses,  being  treated  and  lying  dread- 
fully. It  appears  that  he  met  everybody  concerned  in 
the  late  transaction,  everywhere  and  said  to  them, 
“ Sir,”  or  Madam,”  as  the  case  was,  wh}^  do  you  look 
so  pale  ? ” at  which  each  shuddered  from  head  to  foot, 
and  said,  Oh,  Perch  I ” and  ran  away.  Either  the  con- 
sciousness of  these  enormities,  or  the  reaction  consequent 


DOMBEY  AXD  SON. 


441 


on  liquor,  red  ices  Mr.  Perch  to  an  extreme  state  of  low 
spirits  at  that  hour  of  the  evening  v/hen  he  usually  seeks 
consolation  in  the  society  of  Mrs.  Perch  at  Balls  Pond ; 
and  Mrs.  Perch  frets  a good  deal,  for  she  fears  his  confi- 
dence in  woman  is  shaken  now,  and  that  he  half  expects 
on  coming  home  at  night  to  find  her  gone  oft*  with  some 
“Viscount. 

Mr.  Dombey’s  servants  are  becoming,  at  the  same  time, 
quite  dissipated,  and  unfit  for  other  service.  They  have 
hot  suppers  every  night,  and  talk  it  over,’^  with  smok- 
ing drinks  upon  the  board.  Mr.  Towlinson  is  always 
maudlin  after  half -past  ten,  and  frequently  begs  to  know 
whether  he  didn’t  say  that  no  good  would  ever  come  of 
living  in  a corner  house?  They  whisper  about  Miss 
Florence,  and  wonder  where  she  is  ; but  agree  that  if 
Mr.  Dombey  don’t  know,  Mrs.  Dombey  does.  This 
brings  them  to  the  latter,  of  whom  cook  says,  she  had  a 
stately  way  though,  hadn’t  she?  But  she  v/as  too  high  1 
They  all  agree  that  she  was  too  high,  and  Mr.  Towlin- 
son’s  old  flame  the  housemaid  (who  is  very  virtuous,  en- 
treats that  you  will  never  talk  to  her  any  more  about 
people  who  hold  their  heads  up,  as  if  the  ground  wasn’t 
good  enough  for  ’em. 

Everything  that  is  said  and  done  about  it,  except  by 
Mr.  Dombey,  is  done  in  chorus.  Mr.  Dombey  and  the 
world  are  alone  together. 


CHAPTER  LII. 

Secret  Intelligence. 

Good  Mrs.  Brown  and  her  daughter  Alice,  kept  silent 
company  together,  in  their  own  dwelling.  It  v/as  early 
in  the  evening,  and  late  in  the  spring.  But  a few  days 
had  elapsed  since  Mr.  Dombey  had  told  Major  Bagstock 
of  his  singular  intelligence,  singularly  obtained,  which 
might  turn  out  to  be  valueless,  and  might  turn  out  to 
be  true ; and  the  world  was  not  satisfied  yet. 

The  mother  and  daughter  sat  for  a long  time  without 
interchanging  a word  : almost  without  motion.  The  old 
woman’s  face  was  shrewdly  anxious  and  expectant ; 
that  of  her  daughter  was  expectant  too,  but  in  a less 
sharp  degree,  and  sometimes  it  darkened,  as  if  with 
gathering  disappointment  and  incredulity.  The  old 
woman,  without  heeding  these  changes  in  its  expres- 
sion, though  her  eyes  were  often  turned  towards  it,  sat 
mumbling  and  munching,  and  listening  confidently. 

Their  abode,  though  poor  and  miserable,  was  not  so 
utterly  wretched  as  in  the  days  when  only  Good  Mrs. 


442 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Brown  inhabited  it.  Some  few  attempts  at  cleanliness 
and  order  were  manifest,  though  made  in  a reckless, 
gypsy  way,  that  might  have  connected  them,  at  a 
glance,  with  the  younger  woman.  The  shades  of  even- 
ing thickened  and  deepened  as  the  two  kept  silence, 
until  the  blackened  walls  were  nearly  lost  in  the  pre= 
vailing  gloom. 

Then  Alice  broke  the  silence  which  had  lasted  so  long, 
and  said  : 

‘"You  may  give  him  up,  mother.  He’ll  not  come 
here.” 

Death  give  him  up  ! ” returned  the  old  woman,  im- 
patiently. He  'will  come  here.” 

‘‘We  shall  see,”  said  Alice. 

“We  shall  see  him,^^  returned  her  mother. 

“ And  doomsday,”  said  the  daughter. 

“ You  think  Tm  in  my  second  childhood,  I know  I 
croaked  the  old  woman.  “ That’s  the  respect  and  duty 
that  I get  from  my  own  gal,  but  I’m  wiser  than  you 
take  me  for.  He’ll  come.  T’other  day  when  I touched 
his  coat  in  the  street,  he  looked  round  as  if  I was  a 
toad.  But  Lord,  to  see  him  when  I said  their  names, 
and  asked  him  if  he’d  like  to  find  out  where  they  was  ! ” 

“Was  it  so  angry?”  asked  her  daughter,  roused  to 
interest  in  a moment. 

“ Angry  ? ask  if  it  was  bloody.  That’s  more  like  the 
word.  Angry?  Ha,  ha!  To  "call  that  only  angry!” 
said  the  old  woman,  hobbling  to  the  cupboard,  and 
lighting  a candle,  v/hich  displayed  the  workings  of  her 
mouth  to  ugly  advantage,  as  she  brought  it  to  the  table. 
“ I might  as  well  call  your  face  only  angry,  when  you 
think  or  talk  about  ’em.” 

It  was  something  different  from  that,  truly,  as  she  sat 
as  still  as  a crouched  tigress,  with  her  kindling  eyes. 

“Hark  !”  said  the  old  woman,  triumphantly.  “I 
hear  a step  coming.  It’s  not  the  tread  of  any  one  that 
lives  about  here,  or  comes  this  way  often.  We  don’t 
walk  like  that.  We  should  grow  proud  on  such  neigh- 
bours ! Do  you  hear  him  ? ” 

“ I believe  you  are  right,  mother,”  replied  Alice,  in  a 
low  voice.  “Peace  ! open  the  door.” 

As  she  drew  herself  within  her  shawl,  and  gathered  it 
kbout  her,  the  old  woman  complied  ; and  peering  out, 
and  beckoning,  gave  admission  to  Mr.  Dombey,  who 
stopped  when  he  had  set  his  foot  within  the  door,  and 
looked  distrustfully  around. 

“ It’s  a poor  place  for  a great  gentleman  like  youi 
worship,”  said  the  old  woman,  curtseying  and  chatter- 
ing. “ I told  you  so,  but  there  is  no  harm  in  it.” 

“Who  is  that?”  asked  Mr,  Dombey,  looking  at  hei 
companion. 


DOMBEY  AND  dON. 


443 


That's  my  handsome  daughter/'  said  the  old  woman. 

Your  worship  won't  mind  her.  She  knows  all  about 
it" 

A shadow  fell  upon  his  face  not  less  expressive  than 
if  he  had  groaned  aloud,  ‘‘  Who  does  not  know  all  about 
it ! " but  he  looked  at  her  steadily,  and  she  without  any 
acknowledgment  of  his  presence  looked  at  him.  The 
shadow  on  his  face  was  darker  when  • he  turned  his 
glance  away  from  her  ; and  even  then  it  wandered  back 
again,  furtively,  as  if  he  were  haunted  by  her  bold  eyes, 
and  some  remembrance  they  inspired. 

''Woman,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  to  the  old  witch  who 
was  chuckling  and  leering  close  at  his  elbow,  and  who, 
when  he  turned  to  address  her,  pointed  stealthily  at  her 
daughter,  and  rubbed  her  hands,  and  pointed  again, 
" Woman  I I believe  that  I am  weak  and  forgetful  of 
my  station  in  coming  here,  but  you  know  why  I come^ 
and  what  you  offered  when  you  stopped  me  in  the  street 
the  other  day.  What  is  it  that  you  have  to  tell  me  con- 
cerning what  I want  to  know  ; and  how  does  it  hapyjen 
that  I can  find  voluntary  intelligence  in  a hovel  like 
this,"  with  a disdainful  glance  about  him,  " when  I 
have  exerted  my  power  and  means  to  obtain  it  in  vain  ? 
I do  not  think,"  he  said,  after  a moment's  pause,  during 
which  he  had  observed  her,  sternly,  "that  you  are  so 
audacious  as  to  mean  to  trifle  with  me,  or  endeavour  to 
impose  upon  me.  But  if  you  have  that  iDurpose,  you 
had  better  stop  on  the  threshold  of  your  scheme.  My 
humour  is  not  a trifling  one,  and  my  acknowledgment 
will  be  severe." 

"Oh  a proud,  hard  gentleman!"  chuckled  the  old 
woman,  shaking  her  head,  and  rubbing  her  shrivelled 
hands,  "oh  hard,  hard,  hard  ! But  your  worship  shall 
see  wfith  your  own  eyes  and  hear  with  your  own  ears  ; 
not  with  ours — and  if  your  worship's  put  upon  their 
track,  you  won't  mind  paying  something  for  it,  will  you, 
honourable  deary  ? " 

" Money,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  apparently  relieved, 
and  re-assured  by  this  inquiry,  " will  bring  about  un- 
likely things,  I know.  It  may  turn  even  means  as  un- 
expected and  unpromising  as  these,  to  account.  Yes. 
For  any  reliable  information  I receive,  I will  pay.  But 
1 must  have  the  information  first,  and  iudge  for  myself 
of  its  value." 

" Do  you  know  nothing  more  powerful  than  money  ? " 
asked  the  younger  woman,  without  rising,  or  altering  her 
attitude. 

"Not  here,  I should  imagine,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

" You  should  know  of  something  that  is  more  power- 
ful elsewhere,  as  I judge,"  she  returned.  "Do  you 
know  nothing  of  a woman’s  anger?" 


444 


WOBKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


You  liave  a saucy  tongne,  jade,”  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

Not  usually,”  slie  answered,  without  any  show  of 
emotion:  “I  speak  to  you  now,  that  you  may  under 
stand  us  better,  and  rely  more  on  us.  A woman’s  anger 
is  pretty  much  the  same  here,  as  in  your  fine  house.  I 
am  angry.  I have  been  so,  many  years.  I have  as  good 
cause  for  my  anger  as  you  have  for  yours,  and  its  object 
is  the  same  man.” 

He  started,  in  spite  of  himself,  and  looked  at  her  with 
astonishment. 

Yes,”  she  said,  with  a kind  of  laugh.  Wide  as  the 
distance  may  seem  between  us,  it  is  so.  How  it  is  so, 
is  no  matter  ; that  is  my  story,  and  I keep  my  story  to 
myself.  I would  bring  you  and  him  together,  because  I 
have  a rage  against  him.  My  mother  there,  is  avaricious 
and  poor ; and  she  would  sell  any  tiding*s  she  could  glean, 
or  anything,  or  anybody,  for  money.  It  is  fair  enough 
perhaps,  that  you  should  pay  her  some,  if  she  can  help 
you  to  what  you  want  to  know.  But  that  is  not  my  mo- 
tive. I have  told  you  what  mine  is,  and  it  would  be  as 
strong  and  all  sufficient  with  me  if  you  haggled  and  bar 
gained  with  her  for  a sixpence.  I have  done.  My  saucy 
tongue  says  no  more,  if  you  wait  here  till  sunrise  to-mor^ 
row.” 

The  old  woman,  who  had  shown  great  uneasiness  dur 
ing  this  speech  which  had  a tendency  to  depreciate  her 
expected  gains,  pulled  Mr.  Hombey  softly  by  the  sleeve, 
and  whispered  to  him  not  to  mind  her.  He  glanced  at 
them  both  by  turns,  with  a haggard  look,  and  said,  in  a 
deeper  voice  than  was  usual  to  him  : 

Go  on — what  do  you  know  ? ” 

‘‘  Oh,  not  so  fast,  your  worship  I we  must  wait  for  some 
one,”  answered  the  old  woman.  ‘‘It’s  to  be  got  from 
some  one  else — wormed  out — screwed  and  twisted  from 
him.” 

“ Wliat  do  you  mean?”  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

“ Patience,”  she  croaked,  laying  her  hand,  like  a claw, 
upon  his  arm.  “ Patience.  ITl  get  at  it.  I know  I can  I 
If  he  was  to  hold  it  back  from  me,”  said  Good  Mrs. 
Brown,  crooking  her  ten  fingers,  “Pd  tear  it  out  of 
him  ! ” 

Mr.  Dombey  followed  her  with  his  eyes  as  she  hobbled 
to  the  door,  and  looked  out  again  : and  then  his  glance 
sought  her  daughter  ; but  she  remained  impassive,  si- 
lent, and  regardless  of  him. 

“ Do  you  tell  me,  woman,”  he  said,  when,  the  bent  fig- 
ure of  Mrs.  Brown  came  back,  shaking  its  head  and  chat 
tering  to  itself,  “ that  there  is  another  person  expected 
here?  ” 

“ Yes  ! ” said  the  old  woman,  looking  up  into  his  face, 
and  nodding. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


445 


**  From  whom  you  are  to  extract  the  intelligence  that 
is  to  be  useful  to  me  ? 

Yes,”  said  the  old  woman  nodding  again. 

A stranger  ? ” 

*^Chut!”  said  the  old  woman,  with  a shrill  laugh. 

What  signifies!  Well,  well-;  no.  No  stranger  to  your 
worship.  But  he  won’t  see  you.  He’d  be  afraid  of  you, 
and  wouldn’t  talk.  You’ll  stand  behind  that  door,  and 
judge  him  for  yourself.  We  don’t  ask  to  be  believed  on 
trust.  What  ! Your  worship  doubts  the  room  behind 
the  door  ? Oh  the  suspicion  of  you  rich  gentlefolks  I 
Look  at  it,  then.” 

Her  sharp  eye  had  detected  an  involuntary  expression 
of  this  feeling  on  his  part,  which  was  not  unreasonable 
under  the  circumstances.  In  satisfaction  of  it  she  now 
took  the  candle  to  the  door  she  spoke  of.  Mr.  Dombey 
looked  in ; assured  himself  that  it  was  an  empty,  crazy 
room  ; and  signed  to  her  to  put  the  light  back  in  its  place. 

How  long,”  he  asked,  “ before  this  person  comes?” 

Not  long  ” she  answered.  ‘‘  W ould  your  worship  sit 
down  for  a few  odd  minutes  ? '' 

He  made  no  answer  ; but  began  pacing  the  room  with 
an  irresolute  air,  as  if  he  were  undecided  whether  to 
remain  or  depart,  and  as  if  he  had  some  quarrel  with 
himself  for  being  there  at  ail.  But  soon  his  tread  grew 
slower  and  heavier,  and  his  face  more  sternly  thought- 
ful ; as  the  object  with  which  he  had  come,  fixed  itself 
in  his  mind,  and  dilated  there  again. 

While  he  thus  walked  up  and  down  with  his  eyes  on 
the  ground,  Mrs.  Brown,  in  the  chair  from  which  she 
had  risen  to  receive  him,  sat  listening  anew.  The  mo- 
notony of  his  step,  or  the  uncertainty  of  age,  made  her 
so  slow  of  hearing,  that  a foot- fall  without  had  sounded 
in  her  daughter’s  ears  for  some  moments,  and  she  had 
looked  up  hastily  to  warn  her  mother  of  its  approach, 
before  the  old  woman  w’as  roused  by  it.  But  then  she 
started  from  her  seat,  and  whispering  ‘^Here  heist” 
hurried  her  visitor  to  his  place  of  observation,  and  put  a 
bottle  and  glass  upon  the  table,  with  such  alacrity  as  to 
fling  her  arms  round  the  neck  of  Rob  the  Grinder  on  his 
appearance  at  the  door. 

And  here’s  my  bonny  boy,”  cried  Mrs.  Brown,  “at 
last ! —oho,  oho  ! You’re  like  my  own  son,  Robby  ! ” 

“Oh  I Misses  Brown  ! ” remonstrated  the  Grinder, 
“ Don’t.  Can’t  you  be  fond  of  a cove  without  squeedg- 
ing  and  throttling  of  him  ! Take  care  of  the  birdcage  in 
my  hand,  will  you?  ” 

“Thinks  of  a birdcage,  afore  me  I”  cried  the  old 
woman,  apostrophising  the  ceiling.  “ Me  that  feels 
more  than  a mother  for  him  j ” 

WelL  sure  Vm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Misses 


446 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Brown,”  said  tlie  unfortunate  youtTi,  greatly  aggravated  \ 
“ but  you’re  so  jealous  of  a cove.  I’m  very  fond  of  you 
myself,  and  all  that,  of  course  ; but  I don’t  smother  you, 
do  I,  Misses  Brown  ? ” 

He  looked  and  spoke  as  if  he  would  have  been  far 
from  objecting  to  do  so,  however,  on  a favourable  oc- 
casion. 

‘‘And  to  talk  about  birdcages,  too  !”  whimpered  the 
Grinder.  “ As  if  that  was  a crime  ! Why,  look’ee  hereof 
Do  you  know  who  this  belongs  to  ? ” 

“ To  Master,  dear?  ” said  the  old  woman  with  a grin. 

“ Ah  !”  replied  the  Grinder,  lifting  a large  cage  tied 
up  in  a wrapper,  on  the  table,  and  untying  it  with  his 
teeth  and  hands.  “ It’s  our  parrot,  this  is.” 

“ Mr.  Carker’s  parrot,  Rob.^” 

“Wiil  you  hold  your  tongue.  Misses  Brown?”  re- 
turned the  Grinder.  “ What  do  you  go  naming  names 
for?  I’m  blest,”  said  Rob,  pulling  his  hair  with  both 
hands  in  the  exasperation  of  his  feelings,  “if  she  an’t 
enough  to  make  a cove  run  wild  ! ” 

“ What ! do  you  snub  me,  thankless  boy  !”  cried  the 
old  woman,  with  ready  vehemence. 

“ Good  gracious.  Misses  Brown,  no  ! ” returned  the 
Grinder,  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  “Was  there  ever  such 
a ! — Don’t  i dote  upon  you.  Misses  Brown  ? ” 

“Do  you,  sweet  Rob?  Do  you  truly,  chickabiddy  ?” 
With  that,  Mrs,  Brown  held  him  in  her  fond  embrace 
once  more  ; and  did  not  release  him  until  he  had  mad^ 
several  violent  and  ineffectual  struggles  with  his  legs, 
and  his  hair  was  standing  on  end  all  over  his  head. 

“Oh  ! ” returned  the  Grinder,  “ what  a thing  it  is  to 
be  perfectly  pitched  into  with  affection  like  this  here. 
1 wish  she  was — . How  have  you  been  Misses  Brown?” 

“ Ah  ! Not  here  since  this  night  week  ! ” said  the  old 
woman,  contemplating  him  with  a look  of  reproach. 

“ Good  gracious.  Misses  Brown,”  returned  the  Grinder, 
“ I said  to-night’s  a week,  that  I’d  come  to-night,  didn’t 
I ? And  here  I am.  How  you  do  go  on  ! I wish  you’d 
be  a little  rational  Misses  Brown.  I’m  hoarse  with  say- 
ing things  in  my  defence,  and  my  very  face  is  shiny  with 
being  hugged.”  He  rubbed  it  hard  with  his  sleeve,  as 
if  to  remove  the  tender  polish  in  question. 

“ Drink  a little  drop  to  comfort  you,  my  Robin,”  said 
the  old  woman,  filling  the  glass  from  the  bottle  and 
giving  it  to  him. 

“ Thank’ee,  Misses  Brown,”  returned  the  Grinder 
‘ Here’s  your  health.  And  long  may  you — et  cetrer.’ 
Which  to  judge  from  the  expression  of  his  face,  did  no^ 
include  any  very  choice  blessings.  “ And  here’s  her 
health,”  said  the  Grinder,  glancing  at  Alice,  who  sat 
with  her  eyes  fixed,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  on  the  waB 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


447 


behind  him,  but  in  reality  on  Mr.  Dombey’s  face  at  the 
door,  ‘‘  and  wishing  her  the  same  and  many  of  ^em  I ** 

He  drained  the  glass  to  these  two  sentiments,  and  set 
it  down. 

“Well,  I say.  Misses  Brown!’’  he  proceeded.  To 
go  on  a little  rational  now.  You’re  a judge  of  birds,  and 
up  to  their  ways,  as  I know  to  my  cost.  ” 

Cost  ! ” repeated  Mrs.  Brown. 

Satisfaction,  I mean,”  returned  the  Grinder.  ^^How 
you  do  take  up  a cove,  Misses  Brown  ! You’ve  put  it 
all  out  of  my  head  again.  ” 

Judge  of  birds,  Robby,”  suggested  the  old  woman. 
Ah  ! ” said  the  Grinder,  “ Well,  I’ve  got  to  take 
care  of  this  parrot — certain  things  being  sold,  and  a cer- 
tain establishment  broke  up — and  as  I don’t  want  no 
notice  took  at  present,  I wish  you’d  attend  to  her  for  a 
week  or  so,  and  give  her  board  and  lodging,  will  you? 
If  I must  come  backwards  and  forwards,”  mused  the 
Grinder  with  a dejected  face,  I may  as  well  have  some- 
thing to  come  for.”  • 

Something  to  come  for  ? ” screamed  the  old  woman. 
Besides  you,  I mean.  Misses  Brown,”  returned  the 
craven  Rob.  *‘Not  that  I want  any  inducement  but 
yourself.  Misses  Brown,  I’m  sure.  Don’t  begin  again, 
for  goodness  sake.” 

He  don’t  care  for  me  I He  don’t  care  for  me  as 
care  for  him  ! ” cried  Mrs.  Brown,  lifting  up  her  skinny 
hands.  But  I’ll  take  care  of  his  bird.” 

Take  good  care  of  it  too,  you  know,  Misses  Brown,” 
said  Rob,  shaking  his  head.  If  you  was  so  much  as 
to  stroke  its  feathers  once  the  wrong  way,  I believe  it 
would  be  found  out.” 

‘‘Ah,  so  sharp  as  that,  Rob?”  said  Mrs.  Brown 
quickly. 

•‘Sharp,  Misses  Brown?”  repeated  Rob.  “But  this 
is  not  to  be  talked  about.” 

Checking  himself  abruptly,  and  not  without  a fearful 
glance  across  the  room,  Rob  filled  the  glass  again,  and 
having  slowly  emptied  it,  shook  his  head,  and  began  to 
draw  his  finger  across  and  across  the  wires  of  the  parrot’s 
cage,  by  way  of  a diversion  from  the  dangerous  theme 
that  had  just  then  been  reached. 

The  old  woman  eyed  him  slyly,  and  hitching  her  chair 
nearer  his,  and  looking  in  at  the  parrot,  who  came  down 
from  the  gilded  dome  at  her  call,  said  : 

‘ ‘ Out  of  place  now,  Robby  ? ” 

“ 'Never  ^ou  mind.  Misses  Brown,”  returned  the  Grinder 
shortly^ 

“Board  wages,  perhaps,  Rob?”  said  Mrs.  Brown. 

“ Pretty  Polly  I ” said  the  Grinder. 

The  old  woman  darted  a glance  at  him  that  might 


448 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


have  warned  him  to  consider  his  ears  in  danger,  hut  it 
was  his  turn  to  look  in  at  the  parrot  now,  and  however 
expressive  his  imagination  may  have  made  her  angry 
scowd,  it  was  unseen  by  his  bodily  eyes. 

" ‘ I wonder  Master  didn’t  take  you  with  him,  Eob,” 
said  the  old  woman,  in  a wheedling  voice,  but  with  iiv 
creased  malignity  of  aspect. 

Kob  was  so  absorbed  in  contemplation  of  the  parrot, 
and  in  trolling  his  forefinger  on  the  wires,  that  he  made 
no  answer. 

The  old  woman  had  her  clutch  within  a hair’s-breadth 
of  his  shock  of  hair  as  it  stooped  over  the  table  ; but  she 
restrained  her  fingers,  and  said,  in  a voice  that  choked 
with  its  effort  to  be  coaxing  : 

‘‘  Robby,  my  child.” 

“ Well,  Misses  Brown,”  returned  the  Grinder. 

I say,  I wonder  Master  didn’t  take  you  with  him, 
dear  ” 

'•In ever  you  mind,  Misses  Brown,”  returned  the 
Grinder.  • 

Mrs.  Brov/n  instantly  directed  the  clutch  of  her  right 
hand  at  his  hair,  and  the  clutch  of  her  left  hand  at  his 
throat,  and  held  on  to  the  object  of  her  fond  affection  with 
such  extraordinary  fury,  that  his  face  began  to  blacken 
in  a moment. 

Misses  Brown!”  exclaimed  the  Grinder,  ‘‘let  go, 
will  you  1 What  are  you  doing  of  ! Help,  young  woman ! 
Misses  Brow — Brow — ! ” 

The  young  woman,  however,  equally  unmoved  by  his 
direct  appeal  to  her,  and  by  his  inarticulate  utterance, 
remained  quite  neutral,  until,  after  struggling  v/ith  his 
assailant  into  a corner,  Rob  disengaged  himself,  and 
stood  there  panting  and  fenced  in  by  his  own  elbows,  while 
the  old  woman,  panting  too,  and  stamping  with  rage 
and  eagerness,  appeared  to  be  collecting  her  energies  for 
another  swoop  upon  him.  At  this  crisis  Alice  inter- 
posed her  voice,  but  not  in  the  Grinder’s  favour,  by  say- 
ing. 

“ W^ell  done,  mother.  Tear  him  to  pieces  I ” 

“ What,  young  woman  !”  blubbered  Rob  ; “are  you 
against  me  too  ? What  have  I been  and  done  ? What 
am  I to  be  tore  to  pieces  for,  I should  like  to  know  ^ 
Why  do  you  take  and  choke  a cove  who  has  never  done 
you  any  harm,  neither  of  you  ? Call  yourselves  females, 
too  I ” said  the  frightened  and  afflicted  Grinder,  with  his 
coat-cuff  at  his  eye.  “ I’m  surprised  at  you  ! Where’s 
your  feminine-tenderness  ? ” 

“ You  thankless  dog  I ” gasped  Mrs.  Brown.  “ You 
impudent,  insulting  dog  ! ” 

“ What  have  I been  and  done  to  go  and  give  you 
offence.  Misses  Brown?”  retorted  the  tearful  Rob, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


449 


You  was  very  much  attached  to  me  a minute  ago.” 
''To  cut  me  "off  with  his  short  answers  and  his  sulky 
words,”  said  the  old  woman.  ‘‘  Me  I Because  I happen 
to  be  curious  to  have  a little  bit  of  gossip  about  Master 
and  the  lady,  to  dare  to  play  as  fast  and  loose  with  me  i 
But  I’li  talk  to  you  no  more,  my  lad.  Now  go  ! ” 

‘‘I  am  sure.  Misses  Brown,”  returned  the  abject 
Grinder,  "‘I  never  insini wared  that  I v/ished  to  go, 
Don’t  talk  like  that,  Misses  Brown,  if  you  please.” 

I won’t  talk  at  all,”  said  Mrs.  Brown,  with  an  action 
of  her  crooked  fingers  that  made  him  shrink  into  half  his 
natural  compass  in  the  corner,  “ Not  another  word  with 
him  shall  pass  my  lips.  He’s  an  ungrateful  hound.  I 
cast  him  off.  Now  let  him  go  I And  Fli  slip  those  after 
him  that  shall  talk  too  much  ; that  won’t  be  shook  away  ; 
that’ll  hang  to  him  like  leeches,  and  slink  arter  him  like 
foxes.  What  1 He  knows  ’em.  He  knows  his  old 
games  and  his  old  ways.  If  he’s  forgotten  ’em,  they’ll 
soon  remind  him.  Now  let  him  go,  and  see  how  he’ll 
do  Master’s  business,  and  keep  Master’s  secrets,  with 
such  company  always  following  him  up  and  down  Ha, 
ha,  ha  ! He’ll  find  ’em  a different  sort  from  you  and  me. 
Ally  ; close  as  he  is  with  you  and  me.  Now  let  him  go. 
now  let  him  go  ! ” 

The  old  woman,  to  the  unspeakable  dismay  of  the 
Grinder,  walked  her  twisted  figure  round  and  round  in  a 
ring  of  some  four  feet  in  diameter,  constantly  repeating 
these  words,  and  shaking  her  fist  above  her  head,  and 
working  her  mouth  about. 

Misses  Brown,”  pleaded  Rob,  coming  a little  out  of 
his  corner,  “I’m  sure  you  wouldn’t  injure  a cove,  on 
second  thoughts,  and  in  cold  blood,  would  you?” 

“Don’t  talk  to  me,”  said  Mrs.  Brown,  still  wrathfully 
pursuing  her  circle.  “ Now  let  him  go,  now  let  him  go  I ” 
“ Misses  Brown,”  urged  the  tormented  Grinder,  “ I 
didn’t  mean  to — Oh,  what  a thing  it  is  for  a cove  to  get 
iuto  such  a line  as  this  I — I was  only  careful  of  talkingj 
Misses  Brown,  because  I always  am,  on  account  of  his 
being  up  to  everything ; but  I might  have  known  it 
wouldn’t  have  gone  any  further.  I’m  sure  I’m  quite 
agreeable,”  with  a wretched  face,  “'  for  any  little  bit  of 
gossip.  Misses  Brown.  Don’t  go  on  like  this,  if  you 
please.  Oh,  couldn’t  you  have  the  goodness  to  put  in  a 
•vwrd  for  a miserable  cove  here  I ” said  the  Grinder,  ap- 
pealing in  desperation  to  the  daughter. 

“ Come,  mother,  you  hear  what  he  says,’’  she  inter 
posed,  in  her  stern  voice,  and  with  an  impatient  action 
her  head  ; ‘‘  try  him  once  more,  and  if  you  fall  out 
with  him  again,  ruin  him,  if  you  like,  and  have  done 
with  him.” 

Mrs,  Brown,  moved  as  it  seemed  by  this  very  tendav 


450 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


exhortation,  presently  began  to  howl ; and  softening  by 
degrees,  took  the  apologetic  Grinder  to  her  arms,  who 
embraced  her  with  a face  of  unutterable  woe,  and  like  a 
victim  as  he  was,  resumed  his  former  seat,  close  by  the 
side  of  his  venerable  friend  ; whom  he  suffered,  not 
without  much  constrained  sweetness  of  countenance, 
combating  very  expressive  physiognomical  revelations  of 
an  opposite  character,  to  draw  his  arm  through  hers,  and 
keep  it  there. 

“And  how’s  Master,  deary  dear?”  said  Mrs.  Brown, 
when,  sitting  in  this  amicable  posture,  they  had  pledged 
each  other. 

“ Hush  ! if  you’d  be  so  good.  Misses  Brown,  as  to 
speak  a little  lower,”  Rob  implored.  “ Why,  he’s  pretty 
well,  thank’ee,  I suppose.” 

“You’re  not  out  of  place,  Robby?”  said  Mrs.  Brown 
in  a wheedling  tone. 

“ Why,  I’m  not  exactly  out  of  place  nor  in,”  faltered 
Rob.  “I — I’m  still  in  pay.  Misses  Brown.” 

“ And  nothing  to  do,  Rob?” 

“Nothing  particular  to  do  just  now.  Misses  Brown, 
but  to — keep  my  eyes  open,”  said  the  Grinder,  rolling 
them  in  a forlorn  way. 

“ Master  abroad,  Rob  ? ” 

“Oh,  for  goodness  sake.  Misses  Brown,  couldn’t  you 
gossip  with  a cove  about  anything  else  ! ” cried  the 
Grinder,  in  a burst  of  despair. 

The  impetuous  Mrs.  Brown  rising  directly,  the  tor- 
tured Grinder  detained  her,  stammering  “ Ye-yes,  Misses 
Brown,  I believe  he’s  abroad.  What’s  she  staring -at?” 
he  added,  in  allusion  to  the  daughter,  whose  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  the  face  that  now  again  looked  out  behind 
him. 

“ Don’t  mind  her,  lad,”  said  the  old  woman,  holding 
him  closer  to  prevent  his  turning  round.  “ It’s  her  way 
—her  way.  Tell  me,  Rob.  Did  you  ever  see  the  lady, 
deary  ? ” 

“ Oh,  Misses  Brown,  what  lady  ?”  cried  the  Grinder  in 
a tone  of  piteous  supplication. 

“ What  lady?”  she  retorted.  “The  lady  ; Mrs.  Dom- 
bey.” 

Yes,  I believe  I see  her  once,”  replied  Rob. 

“ The  night  she  went  away,  Robby,  eh  ?”  said  the  old 
woman  in  his  ear,  and  taking  note  of  every  change  in  hi^ 
face,  “Aha  1 I know  it  was  that  night.” 

“ Well,  if  you  know  it  was  that  night,  you  know, 
Misses  Brown,”  replied  Rob,  “it’s  no  use  putting  pinch- 
ers into  a cove  to  make  him  say  so.” 

“Where  did  they  go  that  night,  Rob?  Straight 
away  ? How  did  they  go  ? Where  did  you  see  her  ? 
Did  she  laugh?  Did  she  cry?  Tell  me  all  about  it” 


DOHBEY  AND  SON. 


451 


cried  the  old  hag,  holding  him  closer  yet,  patting  tho 
hand  that  was  drawn  through  his  arm  against  her  other 
hand,  and  searching  every  line  in  his  face  with  her 
bleared  eyes.  ““  Come  ! Begin  ! I want  to  be  told  all 
about  it.  " What,  Rob,  boy  I You  and  me  can  keep  a se* 
cret  together,  eh?  WeVe  done  so  before  now.  Wher® 
did  they  go  first,  Rob  ? ” 

The  wretched  Grinder  made  a gasp  and  a pause. 

‘‘  Are  you  dumb  ? ’’  said  the  old  woman,  angrily. 

Lord,  Misses  Brown,  no  ! You  expect  a cove  to  be  a 
flash  of  lightning.  I wish  I was  the  electric  fluency,” 
muttered  the  bewildered  Grinder.  Fd  have  shock  at 
somebody,  that  would  settle  their  business.  ” 

‘‘  What  do  you  say?’'  asked  the  old  woman  with  a 
grin. 

I’m  wishing  my  love  to  you.  Misses  Brown,”  returned 
the  false  Rob,  seeking  consolation  in  the  glass.  Where 
did  they  go  to  first,  was  it  ! Him  and  her  do  you  mean  ? ” 

''  Ah  ! ” said  the  old  woman,  eagerly  Them  two.” 

''  Why  they  didn’t  go  nowhere — not  together,  I mean,” 
answered  Rob. 

The  old  woman  looked  at  him,  as  though  she  had  a 
strong  impulse  upon  her  to  make  another  clutch  at  his 
head  and  throat,  but  was  restrained  by  a certain  dogged 
mystery  in  his  face. 

‘‘  That  was  the  art  of  it,”  said  the  reluctant  Grinder  ; 

that’s  the  way  nobody  saw  ’em  go,  or  has  been  able  to 
say  how  they  did  go.  They  went  different  ways,  I tell 
you.  Misses  Brown.” 

*‘Ay,  ay,  ay!  To  meet  at  an  appointed  place, 
chuckled  the  old  woman,  after  a moment’s  silent  and 
keen  scrutiny  of  his  face. 

“ Why,  if  they  weren’t  a going  to  meet  somewhere,  I 
suppose  they  might  as  well  have  stayed  at  home, 
mightn’t  they.  Misses  Brown  ? ” returned  the  unwilling 
Grinder. 

**  Well,  Rob?  Well?”  said  the  old  woman,  drawing 
his  arm  yet  tighter  through  her  own,  as  if,  in  her  eager- 
ness, she  were  afraid  of  his  slipping  away. 

What,  haven’t  we  talked  enough  yet.  Misses  Brown 
returned  the  Grinder,  who,  between  his  sense  of  injury, 
his  sense  of  liquor,  and  his  sense  of  being  on  the  rack, 
bad  become  so  lachrymose,  that  at  almost  every  answer 
he  scooped  his  coat- cuff  into  one  or  other  of  his  eyes, 
and  uttered  an  unavailing  whime  of  remonstrance.  “ Bid 
she  laugh  that  night,  was  it?  Didn’t  you  ask  if  she 
laughed.  Misses  Brown?” 

“ Or  cried?”  added  the  old  woman,  nodding  assent. 

‘‘  Neither,”  said  the  Grinder.  “She  kept  as  steady 
when  she  and  me— -oh,  I see  you  will  have  out  of  me. 


45g|  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Misses  Brown  I But  take  your  solemn  oath  now,  that 
you'll  never  tell  anybody.” 

This  Mrs.  Brown  very  readily  did  : being  naturally 
Jesuitical  ; and  having  no  other  intention  in  the  matter 
than  that  her  concealed  visitor  should  hear  for  himself. 

She  kept  as  steady,  then,  when  she  and  me  went 
down  to  Southampton,”  said  the  Grinder,  “ as  a image. 
In  the  morning  she  was  just  the  same,  Misses  Brown. 
And  when  she  went  away  in  the  packet  before  daylight 
by  herself — me  pretending  to  be  her  servant,  and  seeing 
her  safe  aboard — she  was  just  the  same.  Now,  are  you 
contented,  Mrs.  Brown?” 

“ No,  Rob.  Not  yet,*’  answered  Mrs.  Brown,  deci- 
sively. 

Oh  here’s  a woman  for  you  !”  cried  the  unfortunate 
Rob,  in  an  outburst  of  feeble  lamentation  over  his  own 
helplessness. 

“ What  did  you  wish  to  know  next,  Misses  Brown  ? * 

“What  became  of  Master?  Where  did  he  go?*' 
She  inquired,  still  holding  him  tight,  and  looking  close 
into  his  face,  with  her  sharp  eyes. 

“ Upon  my  soul,  I don’t  know.  Misses  Brown,”  an 
swered  Rob.  “Upon  my  soul  I don’t  know  what  he  did, 
nor  where  he  went,  nor  anything  about  him.  I only 
know  what  he  said  to  me  as  a caution  to  hold  my  tongue , 
when  we  parted  ; and  I tell  you  this,  Mrs.  Brown,  as  a 
friend,  that  sooner  than  ever  repeat  a word  of  what 
We’re  saying  now,  you  had  better  take  and  shoot  your- 
self or  shut  yourself  up  in  this  house,  and  set  it  a*  fire, 
for  there’s  nothing  he  wouldn’t  do,  to  be  revenged  upon 
you.  You  don’t  know  him  half  as  well  as  I do.  Misses 
Brown.  You’re  never  safe  from  him,  I tell  you.” 

“ Haven’t  I taken  an  oath,”  retorted  the  old  woman, 
“ and  won’t  I keep  it? ” 

“Well,  I’m  sure  I hope  you  will,  Misses  Brown,”  re 
turned  Rob,  somewhat  doubtfully,  and  not  without  a 
latent  thieatening  in  his  manner.  “ For  your  own  sake, 
quite  as  much  as  mine.” 

He  looked  at  her  as  he  gave  her  this  friendly  caution, 
and  emphasised  it  with  a nodding  of  his  head  ; but  find- 
ing it  uncomfortable  to  encounter  the  yellow  face  with 
its  grotesque  action,  and  the  ferret  eyes  with  their  keen 
old  wintry  gaze  so  close  to  his  own, he  looked  down  uneas- 
ily and  sat  shuffling  in  his  chair,  as  if  he  were  trying  to 
bring  himself  to  a sullen  declaration  that  he  would  an- 
swer no  more  questions.  The  old  woman,  still  holding 
him  as  before,  took  this  opportunity  of  raising  the  fore- 
finger of  her  right  hand,  in  the  air,  as  a stealthy  signal  to 
the  concealed  observer  to  give  particular  attention  to 
what  was  about  to  follow. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


453 


Rob,”  she  said,  in  her  most  coaxing  tone. 

‘‘Good  gracious.  Misses  Brown,  what’s  the  mattei 
now  ? ” returned  the  exasperated  Grinder. 

“Rob!  where  did  the  lady  and  Master  ai^point  to 
meet  ? ” 

Rob  shuffied  more  and  more,  and  looked  up  and  looked 
down,  and  bit  his  thumb,  and  dried  it  on  his  waistcoat, 
and  finally  said,  eyeing  his  tormentor  askant,  “How 
should  I know.  Misses  Brovvm  ? ” 

The  old  woman  held  up  her  finger  again,  as  before, 
and  replying,  “ Come  lad  ! It’s  no  use  leading  me  to 
that,  and  there  leaving  me.  I want  to  know  ” — waited 
for  his  answer. 

Rob,  after  a discomfited  pause,  suddenly  broke  :>ut 
wdth,  “ How  can  I pronounce  the  names  of  foreign  places, 
Mrs.  Brown  ? What  an  unreasonable  w’^oman  you  are  ! ” 

“But  you  have  heard  it  said,  Robby,”  she  retorted, 
firmly,  “ and  you  know  w^hat  it  sounded  like.  Come  I ” 

“ I never  heard  it  said.  Misses  Brown,”  returned  the 
Grinder. 

“ Then,”  retorted  the  old  woman  quickly,  “ you  have 
seen  it  written,  and  you  can  spell  it.” 

Rob,  with  a petulant  expression  betw^een  laughing  and 
crying — for  he  v/as  penetrated  with  some  admiration  of 
Mrs.  Brown’s  cunning,  even  through  this  persecution — 
after  some  reluctant  fumbling  in  his  waistcoat  pocket, 
produced  from  it  a little  piece  of  chalk.  Tho  old 
woman’s  eyes  sparkled  when  she  saw  it  between  his 
thumb  and  finger,  and  hastily  clearing  a space  on  the 
deal  table,  that  he  might  write  the  'word  there,  she  once 
more  made  her  signal  with  a shaking  hand. 

“ Now  I tell  you  beforehand,  what  it  is,  Misses 
Bro’v^m,”  said  Rob,  “it’s  no  use  asking  use  anything  else. 
1 won’t  answer  anything  else  ; I can’t.  How  long  it  was 
to  be  before  they  met,  or  whose  plan  it  was  that  they 
was  to  go  away  alone,  I don’t  know  no  more  than  you 
do.  I don’t  know  any  more  about  it.  If  I Vvas  to  tell 
you  how  I found  out  this  w^ord,  you’d  believe  that. 
Shall  I tell  you.  Misses  Brown  ? ” 

“Yes,  Rob.” 

“ Well  then  Misses  Brown.  The  way — now  you  won’t 
ask  any  more,  you  know  ? ” said  Rob,  turning  his  eyes, 
which  were  now  fast  getting  drowsy  and  stupid  upon 
her. 

“ No'c  another  word,”  said  Mrs.  Brown. 

“Well  then,  the  way  was  this.  Wiien  a certain  per- 
son left  the  lady  with  me,  he  put  a piece  of  paper  with  a 
direction  written  on  it  in  the  lady’s  hand,  saying  it  was  in 
cane  she  should  forget.  She  wasn’t  afraid  of  forgetting, 
foT  Bho  tore  it  up  as  soon  as  his  back  was  turned,  and  when 
Eput  Up  thQ  carriage  steps,  1 shook  out  one  of  the  pieces 


454 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


--  -slie  sprinkled  the  rest  out  of  the  window,  T suppose, 
for  there  was  none  there  afterwards,  though  I looked  fop 
'em.  There  was  only  one  word  on  it,  and  that  was  this, 
if  you  must  and  will  know.  But  remember  ! You’re 
upon  your  oath,  Misses  Brown  ! ” 

Mrs.  Brown  knew  that,  she  said.  Rob,  having  noth- 
ing more  to  say,  began  to  chalk,  slowly  and  laboriously, 
on  the  table.” 

' D,’  ” the  old  woman  read  aloud,  when  he  had 
formed  the  letter. 

‘‘  Will  you  hold  your  tongue.  Misses  Brown?”  he  ex- 
claimed, covering  it  with  his  hand,  and  turning  im- 
patiently upon  her,  I won’t  have  it  read  out.  Be  quiet, 
will  you  ! ” 

“Then  write  large,  Rob,”  she  returned,  repeating  her 
secret  signal  ; “ for  my  eyes  are  not  good,  even  at 
print.  ” 

Muttering  to  himself,  and  turning  to  his  work  with  an 
ill  will,  Rob  went  on  with  the  word.  As  he  bent  his  head 
down,  the  person  for  whose  information  he  so  uncon° 
sciously  laboured,  moved  from  the  door  behind  him  to 
within  a short  stride  of  his  shoulder,  and  looked  eagerly 
towards  the  creeping  track  of  his  hand  upon  the  table. 
At  the  same  time,  Alice,  from  her  opposite  chair,  watched 
it  narrowly  as  it  shaped  the  letters,  and  repeated  each 
one  on  her  lips  as  he  made  it,  without  articulating  it 
aloud.  At  the  end  of  every  letter  her  eyes  and  Mr.  Dom- 
bey’s  met,  as  if  each  of  them  sought  to  be  confirmed  by 
the  other  ; and  thus  they  both  spelt  D.  I.  J.  0.  N. 

“ There  !”  said  the  Grinder,  moistening  the  palm  of 
his  hand  hastily,  to  obliterate  the  word  ; and  not  con- 
tent  with  smearing  it  out,  rubbing  and  planing  all  trace 
of  it  away  with  his  coat-sleeve,  until  the  very  colour  of 
the  chalk  was  gone  from  the  table.  “Now,  I hope 
you’re  contented.  Misses  Brown  ! ” 

The  old  woman,  in  token  t)f  her  being  so,  released  his 
arm  and  patted  his  back  ; and  the  Grinder,  overcome 
with  mortification,  cross-examination,  and  liquor,  folded 
his  arms  on  the  table,  laid  his  head  upon  them,  and  fell 
asleep. 

Not  until  he  had  been  heavily  asleep  some  time,  and 
was  snoring  roundly,  t^id  the  old  woman  turn  towards  the 
door  where  Mr.  Dombey  stood  concealed,  and  beckoned 
him  to  come  through  the  room,  and  pass  out.  Even 
then,  she  hovered  over  Rob,  ready  to  blind  him  with 
her  hands,  or  strike  his  head  down,  if  he  should  raise  it 
while  the  secret  step  was  crossing  to  the  door.  But 
though  her  glance  took  sharp  cognisance  of  the  sleeper, 
it  was  sharp  too  for  the  waking  man  ; and  when  he 
touched  her  hand  with  his,  and  in  spite  of  all  his  caution. 


DOM  BEY  AND  SON. 


455 


made  a chinking,  golden  sound,  it  was  as  bright  and 
greedy  as  a raven's. 

The  daughter's  dark  gaze  followed  him  to  the  door, 
and  noted  well  how  pale  he  was,  and  hov/  -his  hurried 
tread  indicated  that  the  least  delay  was  an  insupportable 
restraint  upon  him,  and  how  he  was  burning  to  be  active 
and  away.  As  he  closed  the  door  behind  him,  she  looked 
round  at  her  mother.  The  old  woman  trotted  to  her ; 
opened  her  hand  to  show  what  was  within  ; and  tightly 
closing  it  again  in  her  jealousy  and  avarice,  whispered  : 

What  will  he  do,  Ally  ? " 

Mischief,"  said  the  daughter. 

‘‘  Murder  ? " asked  the  old  woman. 

“ He's  a madman,  in  his  wounded  pride,  and  may  do 
that,  for  anything  we  can  say,  or  he  either." 

Her  glance  was  brighter  than  her  mother's,  and  the 
fire  that  shone  in  it  was  fiercer  ; but  her  face  was  color- 
. less,  even  to  her  lips. 

They  said  no  more,  but  sat  apart  ; the  mother  com- 
muning with  her  money;  the  daughter  with  her  thoughts; 
the  glance  of  each,  shining  in  the  gloom  of  the  feebly 
Sighted  room.  Rob  slept  and  snored.  The  disregarded 
parrot  only  was  in  action.  It  twisted  and  pulled  at  the 
t7ires  of  its  cage,  with  its  crooked  beak,  and  crawled 
up  to  the  dome,  and  along  its  roof  like  a fiy,  and  down 
again  head  foremost,  and  shook,  and  bit,  and  rattled  at 
every  slender  bar,  as  if  it  knew  its  Master's  danger,  and 
was  wild  to  force  a passage  out,  and  fly  away  to  warn 
Iftim  of  it. 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

More  Intelligence. 

Theue  were  two  of  the  traitor’s  own  blood — his  re- 
nounced  brother  and  sister — on  whom  the  weight  of  his 
guilt  rested  almost  more  heavily,  at  this  time,  than  on 
the  man  whom  he  had  so  deeply  injured.  Prying  and  tor- 
menting as  the  world  was,  it  did  Mr.  Dombey  the  service 
of  nerving  him  to  pursuit  and  revenge.  It  roused  his  pas- 
sion, stung  his  pride,  twisted  the  one  idea  of  his  life  into 
a new  shape,  and  made  some  gratification  of  his  wrath, 
the  object  into  which  his  whole  intellectual  existence 
resolved  itself.  All  the  stubbornness  and  implacability 
of  his  nature,  all  its  hard  impenetrable  quality,  all  its 
gloom  and  moroseness,  all  its  exaggerated  sense  of  per- 
sonal importance,  all  its  jealous  disposition  to  resent  the 
least  flaw  in  the  ample  recognition  of  his  importance,  by 
others,  set  this  way  like  many  streams  united  into  one, 
and  bore  him  on  upon  their  tide.  The  most  impetuously 
passionate  and  violently  impulsive  of  mankind  would 


456 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


have  been  a milder  enemy  to  encounter  than  the  sullen 
Mr.  Dombey  wrought  to  this.  A wild  beast  would  have 
been  easier  turned  or  soothed  than  the  grave  gentleman 
without  a wrinkle  in  his  starched  cravat. 

But  the  very  intensity  of  his  purpose  became  almost  a 
substitute  for  action  in  it.  While  he  was  yet  uninformed 
of  the  traitor’s  retreat,  it  served  to  divert  his  mind  from 
his  own  calamity,  and  to  entertain  it  with  another  pros- 
pect. The  brother  and  sister  of  his  false  favourite  had 
no  such  relief  ; everything  in  their  history,  past  and 
present,  gave  his  delinquency  a more  afflicting  meaning 
to  them. 

The  sister  may  have  sometimes  sadly  thought  that  it 
she  had  remained  with  him,  the  companion  and  friend 
she  had  been  once,  he  might  have  escaped  the  crime  into 
which  he  had  fallen.  If  she  ever  thought  so,  it  was  still 
without  regret  for  what  she  had  done,  without  the  least 
doubt  of  her  duty,  without  any  pricing  or  enhancing  of 
her  self-devotion.  But  when  this  possibility  presented  it- 
self to  the  erring  and  repentant  brother,  as  it  sometimes 
did,  it  smote  upon  his  heart  with  such  a keen,  reproach- 
ful touch  as  he  could  hardly  bear.  No  idea  of  retort 
upon  his  cruel  brother  came  into  his  mind.  New  accusa= 
tion  of  himself,  fresh  inward  lamenting  over  his  own  un- 
worthiness,  and  the  ruin  in  which  it  was  at  once  his  com 
solation  and  his  self-reproach  he  did  not  stand  alone,  were 
the  sole  kind  of  reflections  to  which  the  discovery  gave 
rise  in  him. 

It  was  on  the  very  same  day  whose  evening  set  upon 
the  last  chapter,  and  when  Mr.  Dombey ’s  world  was 
busiest  with  the  elopement  of  his  wife,  that  the  window 
of  the  room  in  which  the  brother  and  sister  sat  at  their 
early  breakfast,  was  darkened  by  the  unexpected  shadow 
of  a man  coming  to  the  little  porch  : which  man  was 
Perch  the  messenger. 

"‘Tve  stepped  over  from  Balls  Pond  at  a early  hour,” 
said  Mr.  Perch,  confldentially  looking  in  at  the  room 
door,  and  stopping  on  the  mat  to  wipe  his  shoes  all  round, 
which  had  no  mud  upon  them,  ‘‘  agreeable  to  my  in- 
structions last  night.  They  was,  to  be  sure  and  bring  a 
note  to  you,  Mr.  Carker,  before  you  went  out  in  the 
morning.  I should  have  been  here  a good  hour  and  a half 
ago,”  said  Mr. Perch,  meekly,  “but  for  the  state  of  health 
of  Mrs.  P. , who  I thought  I should  have  lost  in  the  night, 
1 do  assure  you,  five  distinct  times.” 

“ Is  your  wife  ill  ? ” asked  Harriet. 

“Why  you  see,”  said  Mr.  Perch,  first  turning  round  to 
shut  the  door  carefully,  “ she  takes  what  has  happened 
in  our  House  so  much  to  heart,  miss.  Her  nerves  is  so 
very  delicate  you  see,  and  soon  unstrungi  Not  but  wha^ 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


457 


tlie  strongest  nerves  had  good  need  to  be  shook,  Fm 
sure.  You  feel  it  very  much  yourself,  no  doubts.” 

Harriet  repressed  a sigh,  and  glanaed  at  her  brother. 

“ Fm  sure  I feel  it  myself,  in  my  humble  way,”  Mr. 
Perch  went  on  to  say,  with  a shake  of  his  head,  "Mn  a 
manner  I couldn't  have  believed  if  I hadn't  been  called 
upon  to  undergo.  It  has  almost  the  effect  of  drink  upon 
me.  I literally  feels  every  morning  as  if  I had  been 
taking  more  than  was  good  for  me  over-night.” 

Mr.  Perch's  appearance  corroborated  this  recital  of  his 
symptoms.  There  was  an  air  of  feveiish  lassitude  about 
it,  that  seemed  referable  to  drams  ; and  which  in  fact, 
might  no  doubt  have  been  traced  to  those  numerous  dis- 
coveries of  himself  in  the  bars  of  public-houses,  being 
treated  and  questioned,  which  he  was  in  the  daily  habit 
of  making. 

“ Therefore  T can  judge,”  said  Mr.  Perch,  shaking  his 
head  again,  and  speaking  in  a silvery  murmur,  of  the 
feelings  of  such  as  is  at  all  peculiarly  sitiwated  in  this 
most  painful  rewelation.  ” 

Here  Mr.  Perch  waited  to  be  confided  in  ; and  receiving 
no  confidence,  coughed  behind  his  hand.  This  leading 
to  nothing,  he  coughed  behind  his  hat ; and  that  leading 
to  nothing,  he  put  his  hat  on  the  ground  and  sought  in 
his  breast  pocket  for  the  letter. 

‘'If  I rightly  recollect,  there  was  no  answer,”  said 
Mr.  Perch,  with  an  affable  smile  ; " but  perhaps  you'll 
be  so  good  as  cast  your  eye  over  it,  sir.” 

John  Carker  broke  the  seal,  which  was  Mr.  Dombey’s, 
and  possessing  himself  of  the  contents,  which  were  very 
brief,  replied,  " No.  No  answer  is  expected.” 

"Then  I shall  wish  you  good  morning,  miss,”  said 
Perch,  taking  a step  tov>^ard  the  door,  " and  hoping,  I'm 
sure,  that  you'll  not  permit  yourself  to  be  more  reduced 
in  mind  than  you  can  help,  by  the  late  painful  reweia- 
tion.  The  Papers,”  said  Mr.  Perch,  taking  two  steps 
back  again,  and  comprehensively  addressing  both  the 
brother  and  sister  in  a whisper  of  increased  mystery,  “is 
more  eager  for  news  of  it  than  you’d  suppose  possible. 
One  of  the  Sunday  ones,  in  a blue  cloak  and  a white  hat, 
that  had  previously  offered  for  to  bribe  me — need  I say 
with  what  success  ? — was  dodging  about  our  court  last 
night  as  late  as  tv/enty  minutes  after  eight  o'clock.  \ 
see  him  myself,  with  his  eye  at  the  counting-house  key- 
hole, which  being  patent  is  impervious.  Another  one/® 
said  Mr.  Perch,  "with  milintary  frogs,  is  in  the  parlou? 
of  the  King's  Arms  all  the  blessed  day.  I happened, 
last  week,  to  let  a little  obserwation  fall  there,  and  next 
morning,  which  was  Sunday,  I see  it  worked  up  in  prinl^ 
in  a most  surprising  manner.” 

Mr«  Perch  resorted  to  his  breast  pocket,  as  if  to  pro 
Yol.  12  -T 


458 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


duce  the  paragraph,  hut  receiving  no  encouragement, 
pulled  out  his  beaver  gloves,  picked  up  his  hat,  and  took 
nis  leave  ; and  before  it  was  high  noon,  Mr.  Perch  had 
related  to  several  select  audiences  at  the  King’s  Arms 
and  elsewhere,  how  Miss  Carker,  bursting  into  tears, 
had  caught  him  by  both  hands,  and  said,  Oh!  dear  dear 
Perch,  the  sight  of  you  is  ail  the  comfort  I have  left ! ” 
and  how  Mr.  John  Carker  had  said,  in  an  awful  voice. 

Perch,  I disown  him.  ■ Never  let  me  hear  him  men- 
tioned as  a brother  more  ! ” 

Dear  John,”  said  Harriet,  when  they  were  left  alone, 
and  had  remained  silent  for  some  few  moments.  “ There 
are  bad  tidings  in  that  letter.” 

“ Yes.  But  nothing  unexpected,”  he  replied.  ‘‘  I saw 
the  writer  yesterday.” 

The  writer  ?” 

Mr.  Dombey.  He  passed  twice  through  the  counting- 
house  while  I was  there.  I had  been  able  to  avoid  him 
before,  but  of  course  could  not  hope  to  do  that  long.  I 
know  how  natural  it  was  that  he  should  regard  my 
presence  as  something  offensive ; I felt  it  must  be  so, 
myself.” 

He  did  not  say  so  ? ” 

No  ; he  said  nothing  : but  I saw  that  his  glance 
rested  on  me  for  a moment,  and  I was  prepared  for  what 
would  happen — for  what  has  happened.  I am  dis- 
missed I ” 

She  looked  as  little  shocked  and  as  hopeful  as  she 
could,  but  it  was  distressing  news,  for  many  rea- 
sons. 

“ ‘ I need  not  tell  you,*”  said  John  Carker,  reading  the 
letter,  ‘ why  your  name  would  henceforth  have  an  un- 
natural sound,  in  however  remote  a connexion  with 
mine,  or  why  the  daily  sight  of  any  one  who  bears  it, 
would  be  unendurable  to  me.  I have  to  notify  the  ces- 
sation of  all  engagements  between  us,  from  this  date, 
and  to  request  that  no  renewal  of  any  communication 
with  me,  or  my  establishment,  be  ever  attempted  by  you. 
— Enclosed  is  an  equivalent  in  money  to  a generously 
long  notice,  and  this  is  my  discharge.*  Heaven  knows, 
Harriet,  it  is  a lenient  and  considerate  one,  when  we  re* 
member  all  ! ’* 

If  it  be  lenient  and  considerate  to  punish  you  at  all, 
John  for  the  misdeed  of  another,**  she  replied  gently, 

yes.** 

‘‘We  have  been  an  ill-omened  race  to  him,”  said  John 
Carker.  “ He  has  reason  to  shrink  from  the  sound  of  our 
name,  and  to  think  that  there  is  something  cursed  and 
wicked  in  our  blood.  I should  almost  think  it  too, 
Harriet,  but  for  you.  ’* 

“Brother,  don*t  speak  like  this.  If  you  have  any 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


459 


special  reason,  as  you  say  you  have,  and  think  you  have 
— though  I say.  No  !— to  love  me,  spare  me  the  hearing 
of  such  wild  mad  words  ! ” 

He  covered  his  face  with  both  his  hands  ; but  soon 
permitted  her,  coming  near  him,  to  take  one  in  her  own. 

‘‘-After  so  many  years,  this  parting  is  a melancholy 
thing,  I know, said  his  sister,  “ and  the  cause  of  it  is 
dreadful  to  us  both.  We  have  to  live  too,  and  must 
look  about  us  for  the  means.  Well,  well  ! We  can  do 
so,  undismayed.  It  is  our  pride,  not  our  trouble,  to 
strive,  John,  and  to  strive  together.” 

A smile  played  on  her  lips,  as  she  kissed  his  cheek, 
and  entreated  him  to  be  of  good  cheer. 

“ Oh,  dearest  sister  ! Tied,  of  your  own  noble  will,  to 
a ruined  man  ! whose  reputation  is  blighted  ; who  has 
no  friend  himself , and  has  driven  every  friend  of  yours 
away ! ” 

“ John  ! ” she  laid  her  hand  hastily  upon  his  lips, 
“ for  my  sake  ! In  remembrance  of  our  long  companion- 
ship !”  He  was  silent.  “Now  let  me  tell  you,  dear,” 
quietly  sitting  by  his  side,  “ I have,  as  you  have,  expected 
this  ; and  when  I have  been  thinking  of  it,  and  fearing 
that  it  would  happen,  and  preparing  myself  for  it,  as 
well  as  I could,  I have  resolved  to  tell  you,  if  it  should 
be  so,  that  I have  kept  a secret  from  you,  and  that  w© 
a friend.  ” 

“What’s  our  friend’s  name,  Harriet?”  he  answered 
with  a sorrowful  smile. 

“ Indeed  I don’t  know,  but  he  once  made  a very  earn- 
est protestation  to  me  of  his  friendship  and  his  wish  to 
serve  us  ; and  to  this  day  I believe  him.” 

“ Harriet  I ” exclaimed  her  wondering  brother, 

where  does  this  friend  live  ? ” 

“Neither  do  I know  that,”  she  returned.  “But  he 
knows  us  both,  and  onr  history — all  our  little  history, 
John.  That  is  the  reason  why,  at  his  own  suggestion, 
I have  kept  the  secret  of  his  coming  here,  from  you,  lest 
his  acquaintance  with  it  should  distress  you.” 

Here  ! Has  he  been  here,  Harriet  ? ” 

‘^Here,  in  this  room.  Once.” 

“ What  kind  of  a man  ? ” 

“Not  young.  ‘ Gray -headed,’  as  he  said,  ‘and  fast 
growing  grayer.’  But  generous,  and  frank,  and  good,  I 
am  sure.” 

“ And  only  seen  once,  Harriet  ? ” 

“ In  this  room  only  once,”  said  his  sister,  with  the 
slightest  and  most  transient  glow  upon  her  cheek  ; “ but 
when  here,  he  entreated  me  to  suffer  him  to  see  me  once 
a week  as  he  passed  by  in  token  of  our  being  well,  and 
continuing  to  need  nothing  at  his  hands.  For  I told  him, 
when  he  proffered  us  any  service  he  could  render— which 


460 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


was  the  object  of  his  visit — that  we  needed  nothing.” 

**  And  once  a week — ’’ 

*'Once  every  week  since  then,  and  always  on  the  same 
day,  and  at  the  same  hour,  he  has  gone  past ; always  on 
foot ; always  going  in  the  same  direction — towards  Lon- 
don ; and  never  pausing  longer  than  to  bow  to  me,  and 
wave  his  hand  cheerfully,  as  a kind  guardian  might. 
He  made  that  promise  when  he  proposed  these  curious 
interviews,  and  has  kept  it  so  faithfully  and  pleasantly, 
that  if  I ever  felt  any  trifling  uneasiness  about  them  in 
the  beginning  (v/hich  I don’t  think  I did,  John ; his 
manner  was  so  plain  and  true)  it  very  soon  vanished,  and 
left  me  quite  glad  when  the  day  was  coming.  Last 
Monday — the  first  since  this  terrible  event — he  did  not 
go  by ; and  I have  wondered  whether  his  absence  can 
have  been  in  any  way  connected  with  what  has  hap- 
pened.” 

“ How  ?”  inquired  her  brother. 

‘‘I  don’t  know  how.  I have  only  speculated  on  the 
coincidence  ; I have  not  tried  to  account  for  it.  I feel 
sure  he  will  return.  When  he  does,  dear  John,  let  me 
tell  him  that  I have  at  last  spoken  to  you,  and  let  me 
bring  you  together.  He  will  certainly  help  us  to  a new 
livelihood.  His  entreaty  was  that  he  might  do  something 
to  smooth  my  life  and  yours  ; and  I gave  him  my  promise 
that  if  we  ever  wanted  a friend,  I would  remember  him. 
Then,  his  name  was  to  be  no  secret.” 

Harriet,”  said  her  brother,  who  had  listened  with 
close  attention,  describe  this  gentleman  to  me.  I sure- 
ly ought  to  know  one  who  knows  me  so  well.” 

His  sister  painted,  as  vividly  as  she  could,  the  features, 
stature,  and  dress  of  her  visitor  ; but  John  Carker,  either 
from  having  no  knowledge  of  the  original,  or  from  some 
fault  in  her  description,  or  from  some  abstraction  of  his 
thoughts  as  he  walked  to  and  fro,  pondering,  could  not 
recognise  the  portrait  she  presented  to  him. 

However,  it  was  agreed  between  them  that  he  should 
see  the  original  when  he  next  appeared.  This  conclud- 
ed, the  sister  applied  herself,  with  a less  anxious  breast, 
to  her  domestic  occupations  ; and  the  gray -haired  man, 
late  Junior  of  Dombey’s,  devoted  the  first  day  of  his  un- 
wonted liberty  to  working  in  the  garden. 

It  was  quite  late  at  night,  and  the  brother  was  reading 
aloud  while  the  sister  plied  her  needle,  when  they  were 
interrupted  by  a knocking  at  the  door.  In  the  atmos- 
phere of  vague  anxiety  and  dread  that  lowered  about 
them  in  connexion  with  their  fugitive  brother,  this  sound, 
unusual  there,  became  almost  alarming.  The  brother 
going  to  the  door,  the  sister  sat  and  listened  timidly. 
Some  one  spoke  to  him,  and  he  replied,  and  seemed  sur- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


461 


prised ; and  after  a few  words,  the  two  approached  to. 
gether. 

''  Harriet/'  said  her  brother,  lighting  in  their  late  vis- 
itor, and  speaking  in  a low  voice,  ‘‘  Mr.  Morfin — the  gen- 
tleman so  long  in  Dombey's  house  with  James." 

His  sister  started  back,  as  if  a ghost  had  entered.  In 
the  doorway  stood  the  unknown  friend,  with  the  dark 
hair  sprinkled  with  gray,  the  ruddy  face,  the  broad  clear 
brow,  and  hazel  eyes  whose  secret  she  had  kept  so  long  ! 

John  ! " she  said,  half  breathless.  It  is  the  gentle- 
man  I told  you  of,  to-day  ! ” 

The  gentleman.  Miss  Harriet,”  said  the  visitor,  com- 
ing in — for  he  had  stopped  a moment  in  the  doorway, 

is  greatly  relieved  to  hear  you  say  that : he  has  been 
devising  ways  and  means,  all  the  way  here,  of  explaining 
himself,  and  has  been  satisfied  with  none.  Mr.  John,  I 
am  not  quite  a stranger  here.  You  were  stricken  with 
astonishment  when  you  saw  me  at  your  door  just  now. 
i observe  you  are  more  astonished  at  present.  Well  ^ 
That's  reasonable  enough  under  existing  circumstances. 
If  we  were  not  such  creatures  of  habit  as  we  are,  we 
shouldn't  have  reason  to  be  astonished  half  so  often.” 

By  this  time,  he  had  greeted  Harriet  with  that  agree- 
able mingling  of  cordiality  and  respect  which  she  recol- 
lectedeso  well,  and  had  sat  down  near  her,  pulled  oil 
his  gloves,  and  thrown  them  into  his  hat  upon  the 
table. 

‘ ‘ There's  nothing  astonishing,”  he  said,  ‘‘  in  my  having 
conceived  a desire  to  see  your  sister,  Mr.  John,  or  in  my 
having  gratified  it  in  my  own  way.  As  to  the  regularity 
of  my  visits  since  (which  she  may  have  mentioned  to  you), 
there  is  nothing  extraordinary  in  that.  They  soon  grew 
into  a habit ; and  we  are  creatures  of  habit — creatures  of 
habit  !" 

Putting  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  leaning  back  in 
his  chair,  he  looked  at  the  brother  and  sister  as  if  it  were 
interesting  to  him  to  see  them  together  ; and  went  on  to 
say,  with  a kind  of  irritable  thoughtfulness  : ‘‘It's  this 
same  habit  that  confirms  some  of  us,  who  are  capable  of 
better  things,  in  Lucifer’s  own  pride  and  si^ubbornness — 
that  confirms  and  deepens  others  of  us  in  villainy — more 
of  us  in  indifference — that  hardens  us  from  day  to  day, 
according  to  the  temper  of  our  clay,  like  images,  and  leaves 
us  as  susceptible  as  images  to  new  impressions  and  con- 
victions. You  shall  judge  of  its  infiuence  on  me,  John. 
For  more  years  than  I need  name,  I had  my  small,  an  ex- 
actly defined  share,  in  the  management  of  Dombey’s 
house,  and  saw  your  brother  (who  has  proved  himself  a 
scoundrel ! Your  sister  will  forgive  my  being  obliged  to 
mention  it)  extending  and  extending  his  infiuence,  until 
the  business  and  its  owner  v/ere  his  football;  and  saw 


462 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


you  toiling  at  your  obscure  desk  every  day  ; and  was 
quite  content  to  be  as  little  troubled  as  I might  be,  out 
of  my  own  strip  of  duty,  and  to  let  everything  about  me 
goon,  day  by  day,  unquestioned,  like  a great  machine — 
that  was  its  habit  and  mine — and  to  take  it  all  for  granted, 
and  consider  it  all  right.  My  Wednesday  nights  came 
regularly  round,  our  quartette  parties  came  regularly  off, 
my  violoncello  was  in  good  tune,  and  there  was  nothing 
wrong  in  my  world — or,  if  anything,  not  much — or  little 
or  much,  it  was  no  affair  of  mine.” 

I can  answer  for  your  being  more  respected  and  be- 
loved during  all  that  time  than  anybody  in  the  house, 
sir,”  said  John  Carker. 

'"Pooh  ! Good-natured  and  easy  enough,  I dare  say,” 
returned  the  other,  ‘‘a  habit  I had.  It  suited  the  man- 
ager : it  suited  the  man  he  managed  : it  suited  me  best 
of  all.  I did  wbat  was  allotted  to  me  to  do,  made  no 
court  to  either  of  them,  and  was  glad  to  occupy  a station 
in  which  none  was  required.  So  I should  have  gone  on 
till  now,  but  that  my  room  had  a thin  wall.  You  can  tell 
3^our  sister  that  it  was  divided  from  the  manager’s  room 
by  a wainscot  partition.” 

‘‘  They  were  adjoining  rooms  ; had  been  one,  perhaps, 
originally  ; and  were  separated,  as  Mr.  Morfin  says,”  said 
her  brother,  looking  back  to  him  for  the  resumption  of 
his  explanation. 

**  I have  whistled,  hummed  tunes,  gone  accurately 
through  the  whole  of  Beethoven’s  Sonata  in  B,  to  let  him 
know  that  I was  within  hearing,”  said  Mr.  Morfin,  but 
he  never  heeded  me.  It  happened  seldom  enough  that  I 
was  within  hearing  of  anything  of  a private  nature,  cer- 
tainly. But  when  I was,  and  couldn’t  otherwise  avoid 
kox-ming  something  of  it,  I walked  out.  I walked  out 
once,  John,  during  a conversation  between  two  brothers, 
to  which,  in  the  beginning,  young  Walter  Gay  was  a 
party.  But  I overheard  some  of  it  before  I left  the  room. 
You  remember  it  sufficiently,  perhaps,  to  tell  your  sister 
what  its  nature  was  ?” 

It  referred,  Harriet,”  said  her  brother,  in  a low 
voice,  “ to  the  past,  and  to  our  relative  positions  in  the 
house.” 

Its  matter  was  not  new  to  me,  but  was  presented  in  a 
new  aspect.  It  shook  me  in  ray  habit — the  habit  of  nine- 
tenths  of  the  world — of  believing  that  all  was  right 
about  me,  because  I was  used  to  it,”  said  their  visitor  • 
**  and  induced  me  to  recall  the  history  of  the  two  brothers^ 
and  to  ponder  on  it.  I think  it  was  almost  the  first  time 
in  my  life  when  I fell  into  this  train  of  reflection — how 
will  many  things  that  are  familiar,  and  quite  matters  of 
course  to  us  now,  look,  when  we  come  to  see  them  from 
that  new  and  distant  point  of  view  which  we  must  all 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


463 


take  up,  one  day  or  other?  I was  something  less  good- 
natured,  as  the  phrase  goes,  after  that  morning,  less 
easy  and  complacent  altogether.” 

He  sat  for  a minute  or  so,  drumming  with  one  hand 
on  the  table  ; and  resumed  in  a hurry,  as  if  he  were  anx- 
ious to  get  rid  of  his  confession. 

“Before  I knew  what  to  do,  or  whether  I could  do 
anything,  there  was  a second  conversation  between  the 
same  two  brothers,  in  which  their  sister  was  mentioned. 
I had  no  scruples  of  conscience  in  suffering  all  the  waifs 
and  strays  of  that  conversation  to  float  to  me  as  freely 
as  they  would.  I considered  them  mine  by  right.  After 
that  I came  here  to  see  the  sister  for  myself.  The  first 
time  I stopped  at  the  garden  gate,  I made  a pretext  of  in- 
quiring into  the  character  of  a poor  neighbour  ; but  1 
wandered  out  of  that  tract,  and  I think  Miss  Harriet  mis- 
trusted me.  The  second  time  I asked  leave  to  come  in  : 
came  in  ; and  said  what  I wished  to  say.  Your  sister 
showed  me  reasons  which  I dared  not  dispute,  for  re- 
ceiving no  assistance  from  me  then ; but  I established  a 
means  of  communication  between  us,  which  remained 
unbroken  until  within  these  few  days,  when  I was  pre- 
vented, by  important  matters  that  have  lately  devolv&S 
upon  me,  from  maintaining  them.” 

“How  little  I have  suspected  this,”  said  John  Carker^ 
“when  I have  seen  you  every  day,  sir  ! If  Harriet 
could  have  guessed  your  name — ” 

“Why,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  John,”  interposed  the 
visitor,  “I kept  it  to  myself  for  two  reasons,  I*don^t 
know  that  the  first  might  have  been  binding  alone  ; but 
one  has  no  business  to  take  credit  for  good  intentions, 
and  I made  up  my  mind,  at  all  events,  not  to  disclose 
myself  until  I should  be  able  to  do  you  some  real  service 
or  other.  My  second  reason  was,  that  I always  hoped 
there  .might  be  some  lingering  possibility  of  your 
brother’s  relenting  towards  you  both  ; and  in  that  case 
I felt  that  there  was  the  chance  of  a man  of  his  suspi- 
cious, watchful  character  discovering  that  you  had  been 
secretly  befriended  by  me,  there  was  the  chance  of  a 
new  and  fatal  cause  of  division.  I resolved,  to  be  sure, 
at  the  risk  of  turning  his  displeasure  against  myself— 
which  would  have  been  no  matter — to  watch  my  oppor- 
tunity of  serving  you  with  the  head  of  the  house  ; but 
the  distractions  of  death,  courtship,  marriage,  and  do- 
mestic unhappiness,  have  left  us  no  head  but  your 
brother,  for  this  long,  long  time.  And  it  would  have 
been  better  for  us,”  said  the  visitor,  dropping  his  voice, 
“ to  have  been  a lifeless  trunk.” 

He  seemed  conscious  that  these  latter  words  had  es- 
caped him  against  his  will,  and  stretching  out  a hand  to 
the  brother  and  a hand  to  the  sister,  continued  ^ 


464 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


All  I could  desire  to  say,  and  more,  I have  now  said. 
All  I mean  goes  beyond  words,  as  I hope  you  understand 
and  believe.  The  time  has  come,  John — though  most 
unfortunately  and  unhappily  come — when  I may  help 
you  without  interfering  with  that  redeeming  struggle, 
which  has  lasted  through  so  many  years  ; since  you  wer© 
discharged  from  it  to-day  by  no  act  of  your  own.  It  is 
late  ; I need  say  no  more  to-night.  You  will  guard  th© 
treasure  you  have  here,  without  advice  or  reminder 
from  me.” 

With  these  words  he  rose  to  go. 

But  go  you  first,  John,”  he  said  good-humouredly, 

with  a light,  without  saying  what  you  want  to  say, 
whatever  that  may  be  ; ” John  Carker^s  heart  was  full, 
and  he  would  have  relieved  it  in  speech,  if  he  could; 
**  and  let  me  have  a word  with  your  sister.  We  hav4 
talked  alone  before,  and  in  this  room  too ; though  it 
looks  more  natural  with  you  here.” 

Following  him  out  with  his  eyes,  he  turned  kindly  to 
Harriet,  and  said  in  a lower  voice,  and  with  an  altered 
and  graver  manner : 

You  wish  to  ask  me  something  of  the  man  whose 
sister  it  is  your  misfortune  to  be.” 

I dread  to  ask,”  said  Harriet. 

You  have  looked  so  earnestly  at  me  more  than  once,'" 
yejoined  the  visitor,  that  I think  I can  divine  your 
question.  Has  he  taken  money  ? Is  it  that  ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

He  has  not.” 

**  I thank  Heaven  ! ” said  Harriet.  For  the  sake  ot 
John.” 

“ That  he  has  abused  his  trust  in  many  ways,”  said 
Mr.  Morfin  ; “that  he  has  oftener  dealt  and  speculated 
io  advantage  for  himself  than  for  the  house  he  repre- 
sented ; that  he  has  led  the  house  on,  to  prodigious  ven- 
tures, often  resulting  in  enormous  losses  ; that  he  has 
always  pampered  the  vanity  and  ambition  of  his  em- 
ployer, when  it  was  his  duty  to  have  held  them  in  check, 
and  shown,  as  it  was  in  his  power  to  do,  to  what  they 
tended  here  or  there  ; will  not,  perhaps,  surprise  you 
now.  Undertakings  have  been  entered  on,  to  swell  the 
reputation  of  the  house  for  vast  resources,  and  to  ex- 
hibit it  in  magnificent  contrast  to  other  merchants'  houses, 
of  which  it  requires  a steady  head  to  contemplate  the 
possibly — a few  disastrous  changes  of  affairs  might  ren- 
der them  the  probably — ruinous  consequences.  In  the 
midst  of  the  many  transactions  of  the  house,  in  most 
parts  of  the  world  : a great  labyrinth  of  which  only  he 
has  held  the  clue  : he  has  had  the  opportunity,  and  he 
seems  to  have  used  it,  of  keeping  the  various  results 
afloat,  when  ascertained,  and  substituting  estimates  and 


DOMBEr  AND  SON. 


465 


generalities  foi  facts.  But  latterly — you  follow  me.  Miss 
Harriet  ? 

Perfectly,  perfectly,’'  she  answered,  with  her  fright- 
ened face  fixed  on  his.  “ Pray  tell  me  all  the  worst  at 

'ODce,” 

Latterly,  he  appears  to  have  devoted  the  greatest 
Ipains  to  making  these  results  so  plain  and  clear,  that 
Hreference  to  the  private  books  enables  one  to  grasp 
Ifihem,  numerous  and  varying  as  they  are,  with  extraor- 
dinary ease.  As  if  he  had  resolved  to  show  his  employer 
at  one  broad  view  what  has  been  brought  upon  him  by 
ministration  to  his  ruling  passion  I that  it  has  been  his 
constant  practice  to  minister  to  that  passion  basely,  and 
to  flatter  it  corruptly,  is  indubitable.  In  that,  his  crim^ 
inality,  as  it  is  connected  with  the  affairs  of  the  house, 
chiefly  consists.” 

One  other  word  before  you  leave  me,  dear  sir,”  said 
Harriet.  There  is  no  danger  in  all  this  ? ” 

How  danger?”  he  returned,  with  a little  hesitation. 

* ' To  the  credit  of  the  house  ? ” 

I cannot  help  answering  you  plainly,  and  trusting 
you  completely,”  said  Mr.  Morfln,  after  a moment’s  sur- 
vey of  her  face. 

‘‘You  may.  Indeed  you  may  !” 

“I  am  sure  I may.  Danger  to  the  house’s  credit? 
No ; none.  There  may  be  difficulty,  greater  or  less  diffi- 
culty, but  no  danger,  unless— unless,  indeed — the  head 
of  the  house,  unable  to  bring  his  mind  to  the  reduction 
of  its  enterprises,  and  positively  refusing  to  believe  that 
it  is,  or  can  be,  in  any  position  but  the  position  in  which 
he  has  alv/ays  represented  it  to  himself,  should  urge  it 
beyond  its  strength.  Then  it  would  totter.” 

“ But  there  is  no  apprehension  of  that  ? ” said  Harriet. 

'*  There  shall  be  no  half-confidence,”  he  replied,  shak- 
ing her  hand,  ‘ ‘ between  us.  Mr.  Dombey  is  unap- 
proachable by  any  one,  and  his  state  of  mind  is  haughty, 
rash,  .unreasonable,  and  ungovernable,  now.  But  he  is 
disturbed  and  agitated  now  beyond  all  common  bounds, 
and  it  may  pass.  You  now  know  all,  both  worst  and 
best.  No  more  to-night,  and  good  night ! ” 

With  that  he  kissed  her  hand,  and,  passing  out  to  the 
door  where  her  brother  stood  awaiting  his  coming,  put 
Mm  cheerfully  aside  when  he  essayed  to  speak  ; told 
him  that,  as  they  would  see  each  other  soon  and  often, 
he  might  speak  at  another  time,  if  he  would,  but  there 
was  no  leisure  for  it  then  ; and  went  away  at  a round 
pace. in  order  that  no  word  of  gratitude  might  follow  him. 

The  brother  and  sister  sat  conversing  by  the  fireside, 
until  it  was  almost  day  ; made  sleepless  by  this  glimpse 
of  the  new  world  that  opened  before  them,  and  feeling 
like  two  people  shipwrecked  long  ag'o,  upon  a solitary 


466 


WOKKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


coast,  to  wliom  a sliip  Lad  come  at  last,  when  they  were 
old  in  resignation,  and  had  lost  all  tliought  of  any  other 
Lome.  But  another  and  different  kind  of  disquietude 
kept  them  waking  too.  The  darkness  out  of  which  this 
light  had  broken  on  them  gathered  around  ; and  the 
shadow  of  their  guilty  brother  was  in  the  house  where 
his  foot  had  never  trod. 

Nor  was  it  to  be  driven  out,  nor  did  it  fade  before  the 
sun.  Next  morning  it  was  there  ; at  noon  ; at  night. 
Darkest  and  most  distinct  at  night,  as  is  now  to  be  told, 

John  Carker  had  gone  out,  in  pursuance  of  a letter  of 
appointment  from  their  friend,  and  Harriet  was  left  in 
the  house  alone.  She  had  been  alone  some- hours.  A 
dull,  grave  evening,  and  a deepening  twilight,  were  not 
favourable  to  the  removal  of  the  oppression  on  her  spir- 
its. The  idea  of  this  brother,  long  unseen  and  unknown, 
flitted  about  her  in  frightful  shapes.  He  was  dead,  dy- 
ing, calling  to  her,  staring  at  her,  frowning  on  her.  The 
pictures  in  her  mind  were  so  obtrusive  and  exact  that, 
as  the  twilight  deepened,  she  dreaded  to  raise  her  head 
and  look  at  time  dark  corners  of  the  room,  lest  his  wraith, 
the  offspring  of  her  excited  imagination,  should  be  wait- 
ing there,  to  startle  her.  Once  she  had  such  a fancy  of 
his  being  in  the  next  room,  hiding — though  she  knew 
quite  well  what  a distempered  fancy  it  was,  and  had  no 
belief  in  it — that  she  forced  herself  to  go  there,  for  her 
own  conviction.  But  in  vain.  The  room  resumed  its 
shadowy  terrors  the  moment  she  left  it  ; and  she  had  no 
more  power  to  divest  herself  of  these  vague  impressions 
of  dread,  than  if  they  had  been  stone  giants,  rooted  in 
the  solid  earth. 

It  was  almost  dark,  and  she  was  sitting  near  the  win- 
dow, with  her  head  upon  her  hand,  looking  down,  when, 
sensible  of  a sudden  increase  in  the  gloom  of  the  apart- 
ment, she  raised  her  eyes  and  uttered  an  involuntary 
cry.  Close  to  the  glass,  a pale  scared  face  gazed  in  ; va- 
cantly, for  an  instant,  as  searching  for  an  object ; then  the 
eyes  rested  on  herself,  and  lighted  up. 

‘‘  Let  me  in  ! Let  me  in  ! I want  to  speak  to  you  !*“* 
and  the  hand  rattled  on  the  glass. 

She  recognized  immediately  the  woman  with  the  long 
dark  hair,  to  whom  she  had  given  warmth,  food,  and 
shelter,  one  wet  night.  Naturally  afraid  of  her,  remem- 
bering her  violent  behaviour,  Harriet,  retreating  a little 
from  the  window,  stood  undecided  and  alarmed. 

Let  me  in  I Let  me  speak  to  you  ! I am  thankful 
— quiet — humble — anything  you  like.  But  let  me  speak 
to  you.” 

The  vehement  manner  of  the  entreaty,  the  earnest  ex- 
pression of  the  face,  the  trembling  of  the  two  hands  that 
were  raised  imploringly,  a certain  dread  and  terror  ia 


DOMBEY  AND  SOli. 


467 


tlie  voice  akin  to  lier  own  condition  at  the  moment,  pre- 
vailed with  Harriet.  Slie  hastened  to  the  door  and 
opened  it. 

‘‘  May  I come  in  or  shall  I speak  here?  ” said  the  wo- 
man, catching  at  her  hand. 

What  is  it  that  you  want?  What  is  it  that  yon 
have  to  say  ? ” 

Not  much,  but  let  me  say  it  out,  or  I shall  never  sa^ 
it.  I am  tempted  now  to  go  away.  There  seem  to  be 
hands  dragging  me  from  the  door.  Let  me  come  in,  if 
you  can  trust  me  for  this  once  ! ’’ 

Her  energy  again  prevailed,  and  they  passed  into  the 
firelight  of  the  little  kitchen,  where  she  had  before  sat, 
and  ate,  and  dried  her  clothes, 

‘"Sit  there,"'  said  Alice,  kneeling  down  beside  her, 
“and  look  at  me.  You  remember  me?"" 

“Ido."" 

“ You  remember  what  I told  you  I had  been,  and 
where  I came  from,  ragged  and  lame,  with  the  fierce 
wind  and  weather  beating  on  my  head  ? "’ 

Yes."" 

“You  know  how  I came  back  that  night,  and  threw 
your  money  in  the  dirt,  and  cursed  you  and  your  race. 
Now,  see  me  here,  on  my  knees.  Am  I less  earnest 
now,  than  I was  then  ? ” 

“ If  what  you  ask,""  said  Harris,  gently,  is  forgive^ 
ness — "" 

“ But  it"s  not  ! ""  returned  the  other,  with  a proud, 
fierce  look.  “ What  I ask  is  to  be  believed.  Now 
you  shall  judge  if  I am  worthy  of  belief,  both  as  I was, 
and  as  I am."" 

Still  upon  her  knees,  and  with  her  eyes  upon  the  fire, 
and  the  fire  shining  on  her  ruined  beauty  and  her  wild 
black  hair,  one  long  tress  of  which  she  pulled  over  her 
shoulder,  and  wound  about  her  hand,  and  thoughtfully 
bit  and  tore  while  speaking,  she  went  on  : 

“ When  I was  young  and  pretty,  and  this,""  plucking 
contemptuously  at  the  hair  she  held,  “was  only  handled 
delicately,  and  couldn't  be  admired  enough,  my  mother, 
who  had  not  been  very  mindful  of  me  as  a child,  found 
out  my  merits,  and  was  fond  of  me,  and  proud  of  me. 
She  was  covetous  and  poor,  and  thought  to  make  a sort 
of  property  of  me.  No  great  lady  ever  thought  that  of 
a daughter  yet,  Fm  sure,  or  acted  as  she  did — it’s  never 
done,  w'e  all  know — and  that  shows  that  the  only  in- 
stances of  mothers  bringing  up  their  daughters  wrong, 
and  evil  coming  of  it,  are  among  such  miserable  folks  as 
us. "" 

Looking  at  the  fire,  as  if  she  were  forgetful,  for  the 
moment,  of  having  any  auditor,  she  continued  in  a 
dreamy  way,  as  she  wound  the  long  tress  of  hair  tight 
round  and  round  her  head. 


468 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


‘‘  Wliat  came  of  that,  I needn’t  say.  Wretched 
marriages  don’t  come  of  such  things,  in  our  degree  ; 
only  wretchedness  and  ruin.  Wretchedness  and  ruin 
came  on  me — came  on  me.” 

Raising  her  eyes  swiftly  from  their  moody  gaze  upon 
the  fire,  to  Harriet’s  face,  she  said — 

I am  wasting  time,  and  there  is  none  to  spare  ; yet 
if  I hadn’t  thought  of  all,  I shouldn’t  be  here  now. 
Wretchedness  and  ruin  came  on  me,  I say.  I was  made 
a short-lived  toy,  and  flung  aside  more  cruelly  and  care- 
lessly than  even  such  things  are.  By  whose  hand  do 
you  think  ? ” 

Why  do  you  ask  me  ? ” said  Harriet. 

'"Why  do  you  tremble?”  rejoined  Alice,  with  an 
eager  look.  " His  usage  made  a devil  of  me.  I sunk 
In  wretchedness  and  ruin,  lower  and  lower  yet.  I was 
concerned  in  a robbery — in  every  part  of  it  but  the  gains 
• — and  was  found  out,  and 'sent  to  be  tried  without  a 
friend,  without  a penny.  Though  I was  but  a girl,  I 
Would  have  gone  to  Death  sooner  than  ask  him  for  a 
word,  if  a word  of  his  could  have  saved  me.  I would  ! 
To  any  death  that  could  have  been  invented.  But  my 
mother,  covetous  always,  sent  to  him  in  my  name,  told 
the  true  story  of  my  case,  and  humbly  prayed  and  peti- 
tioned for  a small  last  gift — for  not  so  many  pounds  as  I 
have  fingers  on  this  hand.  Who  was  it  do  you  think, 
who  snapped  his  fingers  at  me  in  my  misery,  lying,  as  he 
believed,  at  his  feet,  and  left  me  without  even  this  poor 
sign  of  remembrance  ; well  satisfied  that  1 should  be 
sent  abroad,  beyond  the  reach  of  further  trouble  to  him, 
and  should  die,  and  rot  there  ? Who  was  this,  do  you 
think  ? ” 

" Why  do  you  ask  me  ? ” repeated  Harriet. 

Why  do  you  tremble  ? ” said  Alice,  laying  her  hand 
upon  her  arm,  and  looking  in  her  face,  " but  that  the 
answer  is  on  your  lips  ! It  was  your  brother  James.” 

Harriet  trembled  more  and  more,  but  did  not  avert  her 
eyes  from  the  eager  look  that  rested  on  them . 

"When  I knew  you  were  his  sister — which  was  on 
that  night — I came  back,  weary  and  lame,  to  spurn  your 
gift.  I felt  that  night  as  if  I could  have  travelled,  weary 
and  lame,  over  the  whole  world,  to  stab  him,  if  I could 
have  found  him  in  a lonely  place  with  no  one  near.  Do 
you  believe  that  I was  earnest  in  all  that  ? ” 

" I do  I Good  Heaven,  why  are  you  come  again  ? ” 

" Since  then,”  said  Alice,  with  the  same  grasp  of  her 
arm,  and  the  same  look  in  her  face,  " I have  seen  him  1 
I have  followed  him  with  my  eyes,  in  the  broad  day. 
If  any  spark  of  my  resentment  slumbered  in  my  bosom, 
it  sprung  into  a blaze  when  my  eyes  rested  on  him. 
You  know  he  has  wronged  a proud  man,  and  made  him 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


469 


tiis  deadly  enemy.  What  if  I had  given  information  of 
Mm  to  that  man  ? ” 

Information  ! ” repeated  Harriet. 

‘^What  if  I had  found  out  one  who  knew  your 
brother’s  secret : who  knew  the  manner  of  his  flight  ; 
who  knew  where  he  and  the  companion  of  his  flight  were 
gone  ? What  if  I had  made  him  utter  all  his  knowledge 
word  by  word,  before  this  enemy,  concealed  to  hear  it  ? 
What  if  I had  sat  by  at  the  time,  looking  into  this 
enemy’s  face,  and  seeing-^  it  change  till  it  was  scarcely 
human  ? What  if  I had  seen  him  rush  away,  mad,  in 
pursuit  ? What  if  I knew,  now,  that  he  was  oh  his  road, 
more  fiend  than  man,  and  must,  in  so  many  hours,  come 
up  with  him  ? ” 

‘‘  Remove  your  hand  1”  said  Harriet,  recoiling.  Go 
away  ! Your  touch  is  dreadful  to  me  ! ” 

“ I have  done  this,”  pursued  the  other,  with  her  eager 
look,  regardless  of  the  interruption.  Do  I speak  and 
look  as  if  I really  had?  Do  you  believe  what  I am 
saying  ? ” 

I fear  I must.  Let  my  arm  go  ! ” 

‘‘Not  yet.  A moment  more.  You  can  think  what  my 
revengeful  purpose  must  have  been,  to  last  so  long,  and 
urge  me  to  do  this  ? ” 

‘ ‘ Dreadful  ! ” said  Harriet. 

“ Then  when  you  see  me  now,”  said  Alice,  hoarsely, 
here  again,  kneeling  guietiy  on  the  ground,  with  my 
touch  upon  your  arm,  with  my  eyes  upon  your  face,  you 
may  believe  that  there  is  no  common  earnestness  in  what 
I say,  and  that  no  common  struggle  has  been  battling  in 
my  breast.  I am  ashamed  to  speak  the  words,  but  I 
relent.  I despise  myself  ; I have  fought  with  myself 
all  day,  and  all  last  night  ; but  I relent  towards  him 
without  reason,  and  wish  to  repair  what  1 have  done,  if 
it  is  possible.  I wouldn’t  have  them  come  together 
while  his  pursuer  is  so  blind,  and  headlong.  If  you  had 
seen  him  as  he  went  out  last  night,  you  would  know  the 
danger  better.” 

“ How  shall  it  be  prevented  ! What  can  I do  !”  cried 
Harriet. 

Ail  night  long,”  pursued  the  other,  hurriedly,  “I 
had  dreams  of  him— and  yet  I didn’t  sleep— in  his  blood. 
All  day,  I have  had  him  near  me.” 

“ What  can  I do?”  said  Harriet,  shuddering  at  thes® 
words. 

“ If  there  is  any  one  who’ll  write,  or  send,  or  go  to 
him,  let  them  lose  no  time.  He  is  at  Dijon.  Do  you 
knov/  the  name,  and  where  it  is  ? ” 

“Yes!” 

“ Warn  him  that  the  man  he  has  made  his  enemy  is 
In  a frenzy,  and  that  he  doesn’t  know  him  if  he  makes 


470 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


light  of  his  approach.  Tell  him  that  he  is  on  the 
road — I know  he  is  !— and  hurrying  on.  Urge  him  to 
get  away  while  there  is  time — if  there  is  time — and  not 
to  meet  him  yet.  A month  o^  so  will  make  years  of 
difference.  Let  them  not  encounter  through  me.  Any- 
where but  there  ! Any  time  but  now  ! Let  his  foe 
follow  him,  and  find  him  for  himself,  but  not  through 
me  ! There  is  enough  upon  my  head  without."" 

The  fire  ceased  to  be  reflected  in  her  jet  black  hair, 
uplifted  face,  and  eager  eyes  ; her  hand  was  gone  from 
27arriet"s  arm  ; and  the  place  where  she  had  been,  was 
empty. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

The  Fugitives. 

The  time,  an  hour  short  of  midnight  ; the  place,  a 
French  Apartment  comprising  some  half-dozen  rooms  ; 
— a dull  cold  hall  or  corridor,  a dining-room,  a drawing- 
room, a bed-chamber,  and  an  inner  drawing-room,  or 
boudoir,  smaller  and  more  retired  than  the  rest.  All 
these  shut  in  by  one  large  pair  of  doors  on  the  main  stair  - 
case, but  each  room  provided  with  two  or  three  pairs  of 
doors  of  its  own,  establishing  several  means  of  commu- 
nication with  the  remaining  portion  of  the  apartment,  or 
with  certain  small  passages  within  the  wall,  leading,  as 
is  not  unusual  in  such  houses,  to  some  back  stairs  with 
an  obscure  outlet  below.  The  whole  situated  on  the 
first  floor  of  so  large  an  hotel,  that  it  did  not  absorb 
one  entire  row  of  windows  upon  one  side  of  the  square 
court-yard  in  the  centre,  upon  which  the  whole  four  sides 
of  the  mansion  looked. 

An  air  of  splendour,  sufficiently  faded  to  be  melan- 
choly, and  sufficiently  dazzling  to  clog  and  embarrass  the 
details  of  life  with  a show  of  state,  reigned  in  these  rooms* 
The  walls  and  ceilings  were  gilded  and  painted  ; the 
floors  were  waxed  and  polished  ; crimson  drapery  hung 
in  festoons  from  window,  door,  and  mirror  ; and  cande- 
labra, gnarled,  and  intertwisted  like  the  branches  of 
trees,  or  horns  of  animals,  stuck  out  from  the  panels  of 
the  w^all.  But  in  the  day-time,  when  the  lattice-blinds 
(now  closely  shut)  were  opened,  and  the  tight  let  in, 
traces  were  discernible  among  this  finery,  of  wear  and 
tear  and  dust,  of  sun  and  damp  and  smoke,  and  length 
ened  intervals  of  want  of  use  and  habitation,  when  such 
shows  and  toys  of  life  seem  sensitive  like  life,  and  waste 
as  naen  shut  up  in  prison  do.  Even  night,  and  clusters 
of  burning  candles,  could  not  wholly  efface  them,  though 
the  general  glitter  threw  them  in  the  shade. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


471 


The  glitter  of  bright  tapers,  and  their  reflection  in 
looking-glasses,  scraps  of  gilding,  and  gay  colours,  were 
confined,  on  this  night,  to  one  room — that  smaller  room 
within  the  rest,  just  now.  enumerated.  Seen  from  the 
hall,  where  a lamp  was  feebly  burning,  through  the 
dark  perspective  of  open  doors,  it  looked  as  shining  and 
precious  as  a gem.  In  the  heart  of  its  radiance  sat  a 
beautiful  woman — Edith. 

She  was  alone.  The  same  defiant,  scornful  woman 
still.  The  cheek  a little  worn,  the  eye  a little  larger  in 
appearance,  and  more  lustrous,  but  the  haughty  bear* 
ing  just  the  same.  No  shame  upon  her  brow  ; no  late 
repentance  bending  her  disdainful  neck.  Imperious  and 
stately  yet,  and  yet  regardless  of  herself  and  of  all  else, 
she  sat  with  her  dark  eyes  cast  down,  waiting  for  some 
one. 

No  book,  no  work,  no  occupation  of  any  kind  but  her 
own  thoughts,  beguiled  the  tardy  time.  Some  purpose, 
strong  enough  to  fill  up  any  pause,  possessed  her.  With 
her  lips  pressed  together,  and  quivering  if  for  a moment 
she  released  them  from  her  control  ; with  her  nostrils  in- 
flated ; her  hands  clasped  in  one  another  ; and  her  pur- 
pose swelling  in  her  breast ; she  sat,  and  waited. 

At  the  sound  of  a key  in  the  outer  door,  and  a footstep 
in  the  hall,  she  started  up,  and  cried  “Who’s  that?” 
The  answer  was  in  French,  and  two  men  came  in  with 
jingling  trays,  to  make  preparation  for  supper. 

“ Who  bade  them  do  so  ? ” she  asked. 

Monsieur  had  commanded  it,  when  it  was  his  pleasure 
to  take  the  apartment.  Monsieur  had  said,  when  he 
stayed  there  for  an  hour,  en  route,  and  left  the  letter  for 
Madame — Madame  had  received  it  surely?” 

Yes.” 

“ A thousand  pardons  ! The  sudden  apprehension 
that  it  might  have  been  forgotten  had  struck  him  ; ” a 
bald  man,  with  a large  beard  from  a neighbouring  res- 
taurant:  “ with  despair  ! Monsieur  had  said  that  supper 
was  to  be  ready  at  that  hour  : also  that  he  had  fore- 
warned Madame  of  the  commands  he  had  given,  in  his 
letter.  Monsieur  had  done  the  Golden  Head  the  honour 
to  request  that  the  supper  should  be  choice  and  delicate. 
Monsieur  would  find  that  his  confidence  in  the  Golden 
Head  was  not  misplaced.” 

Edith  said  no  more,  but  looked  on  thoughtfully  while 
they  prepared  the  table  for  two  persons,  and  set  the  wine 
upon  it.  She  arose  before  they  had  finished,  and  taking 
a lamp,  passed  into  the  bed-chamber,  and  into  the 
drawing-room,  where  she  hurriedly  but  narrowly  ex- 
amined all  the  doors  ; particularly  one  in  the  former 
room  that  opened  on  the  passage  in  the  wall.  From 
this  she  took  the  key,  and  put  it  on  the  outer  side.  She 
then  came  back. 


472 


WORKS  CF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


The  men — the  second  of  whom  was  a dark,  bilious 
subject,  in  a jacket,  close  shaved,  and  with  a black  head 
of  hair  close  cropped — had  completed  their  preparation 
of  the  table,  and  were  standing  looking  at  it.  He  who 
had  spoken  before,  inquired  whether  Madame  thought  it 
would  be  long  before  Monsieur  arrived  ? 

She  couldn’t  say.  It  was  all  one.” 

Pardon  ! There  was  the  supper  ! It  should  be  eaten 
on  the  instant.  Monsieur  (who  spoke  French  like  an 
Angel — or  a Frenchmen — it  was  all  the  same)  had  spoken 
with  great  emphasis  of  his  punctuality.  But  the  English 
nation  had  so  grand  a genius  for  punctuality.  Ah  ! what 
noise  ! Great  Heaven, here  was  Monsieur.  Behold  him 

In  effect.  Monsieur,  admitted  by  the  other  of  the  two, 
came,  with  his  gleaming  teeth,  through  the  dark  rooms, 
like  a mouth  ; and  arriving  in  that  sanctuary  of  light  and 
colour,  a figure  at  full  length,  embraced  Madame,  and 
addressed  her  in  the  French  tongue  as  his  charming 
wife. 

My  God  ! Madame  is  going  to  faint.  Madame  is 
overcome  with  joy  !”  The  bald  man  with  the  beard  ob- 
served it,  and  cried  out. 

Madame  had  only  shrunk  and  shivered.  Before  the 
words  were  spoken,  she  was  standing  with  her  hand  upon 
the  velvet  back  of  a great  chair  ; her  figure  drawn  up  to 
its  full  height,  and  her  face  immoveable. 

Francois  has  flown  over  to  the  Golden  Head  for  sup 
per.  He  flies  on  these  occasions  like  an  angel  or  a bird 
The  baggage  of  monsieur  is  in  his  room.  All  is  arranged. 
The  supper  will  be  here  this  moment.”  These  facts  the 
bald  man  notified  with  bows  and  smiles,  and  presently 
the  supper  came. 

The  hot  dishes  were  on  a chafing-dish  ; the  cold  al 
ready  set  forth,  with  the  change  of  service  on  a side 
board.  Monsieur  was  satisfied  with  this  arrangement. 
The  supper  table  being  small,  it  pleased  him  very  well. 
Let  them  set  the  chafing-dish  upon  the  floor,  and  go.  He 
would  remove  the  dishes  with  his  own  hands. 

Pardon  ! ” said  the  bald  man,  politely.  It  was  im 
possible  ! ” 

Monsieur  was  of  another  opinion.  He  required  no  fur 
thur  attendance  that  night. 

But  Madame  ” — the  bald  man  hinted. 

Madame,”  replied  Monsieur,  ‘‘had  her  own  maid 
It  was  enough.” 

A million  pardons  ! No  ! madame  had  no  maid  \ ” 

“ I came  here  alone,”  said  Edith.  “ It  was  my  choice 
to  do  so.  I am  wt  ll  used  to  travelling  ; I want  no  attend^ 
ance.  They  need  send  nobody  to  me.” 

Monsieur  accordingly,  persevering  in  his  first  proposed 
impossibility,  proceeded  to  follow  the  two  attendants  to 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


473 


the  outer  door,  and  secure  it  after  them  for  the  night. 
The  bald  man  turning  round  to  bow,  as  he  went  out,  Ob'- 
served  that  madame  still  stood  with  her  hand  upon  the 
velvet  back  of  the  great  chair,  and  that  her  face  was 
quite  regardless  of  him,  though  she  was  looking  straight 
before  her. 

As  the  sound  of  Carker’s  fastening  the  door  resounded 
through  the  intermediate  rooms,  and  seemed  to  como 
hushed  and  stifled  into  that  last  distant  one,  the  sound 
of  the  Cathedral  clock  striking  twelve  mingled  with  it, 
in  Edith’s  ears.  She  heard  him  pause,  as  if  he  heard 
it  too  and  listened  ; and  then  come  back  towards  her, 
laying  a long  train  of  footsteps  through  the  silence,  and 
shutting  all  the  doors  behind  him  as  he  came  along.  Her 
hand,  for  a moment,  left  the  velvet  chair  to  bring  a knife 
within  her  reach  upon  the  table  ; then  she  stood  as  she 
had  stood  before. 

‘‘  How  strange  to  come  here  by  yourself,  my  love,”  he 
said  as  he  entered. 

What  ! ” she  returned. 

Her  tone  was  so  harsh  ; the  quick  turn  of  her  head  so 
fierce  ; her  attitude  so  repellent ; and  her  frown  so  black  ; 
that  he  stood,  with  the  lamp  in  his  hand,  looking  at  her, 
as  if  she  had  struck  him  motionless. 

‘‘  I say,”  he  at  length  repeated,  putting  down  the  lamp, 
and  smiling  his  most  courtly  smile,  how  strange  to  come 
here  alone  ! It  was  unnecessary  caution  surely,  and 
might  have  defeated  itself.  You  were  to  have  engaged 
an  attendant  at  Havre  or  Rouen,  and  have  had  abundance 
of  time  for  the  purpose,  though  you  had  been  the  most 
capricious  and  difficult  (as  you  are  the  most  beautiful^ 
my  love)  of  women.” 

Her  eyes  gleamed  strangely  on  him,  but  she  stood  with 
her  hand  resting  on  the  chair,  and  said  not  a word. 

I have  never,”  resumed  Carker,  seen  you  look  so 
handsome,  as  you  do  to-night.  Even  tne  picture  I have 
carried  in  my  mind  during  this  cruel  probation,  and  which 
I have  contemplated  night  and  day,  is  exceeded  by  th© 
reality.” 

Not  a word.  Not  a look.  Her  eyes  completely  hidden 
by  their  drooping  lashes,  but  her  head  held  up. 

‘‘Hard,  unrelenting  terms  they  were  !”  said  Carker, 
with  a smile,  “ but  they  are  all  fulfilled  and  past,  and 
make  the  present  more  delicious  and  more  safe.  Sicily 
shall  be  the  place  of  our  retreat.  In  the  idlest  and  easL 
est  part  of  the  world,  my  soul,  we’ll  both  seek  comp^iFi 
sation  for  old  slavery.” 

He  was  coming  gaily  towards  her,  when,  in  an  instant, 
she  caught  the  knife  up  from  the  table,  and  started  one 
pace  back. 

Stand  still ! ” she  said,  or  I shall  murder  you  I ” 


474 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS 


The  sudden  change  in  her,  the  towering  fury  and  in- 
tense abhorrence  sparkling  in  her  eyes  and  lighting  up 
her  brow,  made  him  stop  as  if  a fire  had  stopped  him. 

"‘Stand  still  ! she  said,  “come  no  nearer  me,  upon 
your  life  ! '' 

They  both  stood  looking  at  each  other.  Rage  and  as- 
tonishment were  in  his  face,  but  he  controlled  them,  and 
said  lightly, 

“ Come,  come  ! Tush,  we  are  alone  and  out  of  every- 
body’s sight  and  hearing.  Do  you  think  to  frighten  me 
with  these  tricks  of  virtue  ? 

“ Do  you  think  to  frighten  me/'  she  answered  fiercely, 
“from  any  purpose  that  I have,  and  any  course  I am  re- 
solved upon,  b}'  reminding  me  of  the  solitude  of  this 
place,  and  there  being  no  help  near  ? Me  who  am  here 
alone,  designedly  ? If  I feared  you,  should  I not  have 
avoided  you?  If  I feared  you,  should  I be  here,  in 
the  dead  of  night,  telling  you  to  your  face  what  I am 
going  to  tell  ? 

“And  what  is  that,''  he  said,  “you  handsome  shrew? 
Handsomer  so,  than  any  other  woman  in  her  best  hu- 
mour ? " 

“I  tell  you  nothing,"  she  returned,  “until  you  go 
back  to  that  chair— except  this,  once  again — Don’t  come 
near  me  ! Not  a step  nearer.  I tell  you,  if  you  do,  as 
Heaven  sees  us,  I shall  murder  you  1" 

“Do  you  mistake  me  for  your  husband?"  he  retorted, 
with  a grin. 

Disdaining  to  reply,  she  stretched  her  arm  out,  point- 
ing to  the  chair.  He  bit  his  lip,  frowned,  laughed,  and 
sat  down  in  it,  with  a baffled,  irresolute,  impatient  air, 
he  was  unable  to  conceal ; and  biting  his  nail  nervously, 
and  looking  at  her  sideways,  with  bitter  discomfiture, 
even  while  he  feigned  to  be  amused  by  her  caprice. 

She  put  the  knife  down  upon  the  table,  and  touching 
her  bosom  with  her  hand,  said  : 

“ I have  something,  lying  here  that  is  no  love  trinket ; 
and  sooner  than  endure  your  touch  once  more,  Dwould 
use  it  on  you — and  you  know  it,  while  I speak — with 
less  reluctance  than  I would  on  any  other  creeping  thing 
that  lives." 

He  affected  to  laugh  jestingly,  and  entreated  her  to 
act  her  play  out  quickly,  for  the  supper  was  growing 
cold.  But  the  secret  look  with  which  he  regarded  her, 
was  more  sullen  and  lowering,  and  he  struck  his  foot 
once  upon  the  floor  with  a muttered  oath. 

“ How  many  times,"  said  Edith,  bending  her  darkest 
glance  upon  him,  “has  your  bold  knavery  assailed  me 
with  outrage  and  insult?  How  many  times  in  your 
smooth  manner,  and  mocking  words  and  looks,  have  J 
been  twitted  with  my  courtship  and  my  marriage  ? How 


DOM  BEY  AND  SON. 


475 


many  times  Lave  you  laid  bare  my  wound  of  love  for 
that  sweet,  injured  girl,  and  lacerated  it  ? How  often 
have  you  fanned  the  fire  on  which,  for  two  years,  I have 
writhed ; and  tempted  me  to  take  a desperate  revenge, 
when  it  has  most  tortured  me  ? ” 

have  no  doubt,  ma’am,''  he  replied,  ''that  you 
have  kept  a good  account,  and  that  it's  pretty  accurate. 
Come,  Edith.  To  your  husband,  poor  wretch,  this  was 
well  enough — " 

"Why,  if, "she  said,  surveying  him  with  a haughty 
contempt  and  disgust,  that  he  shrunk  under,  let  him 
brave  it  as  he  would,  "if  all  my  other  reasons  for  de- 
spising him  could  have  been  blown  away  like  feathers, 
his  having  you  for  his  counsellor  and  favourite,  would 
have  almost  been  enough  to  hold  their  place." 

" Is  that  a reason  why  you  have  run  away  with  me  ?" 
he  asked  her,  tauntingly. 

"Yes,  and  why  we  are  face  to  face  for  the  last  time. 
Wretch.  We  meet  to-night,  and  part  to-night.  For 
not  one  moment  after  I have  ceased  to  speak,  will  I stay 
here  ! " 

He  turned  upon  her  with  his  ugliest  look,  and  griped 
the  table  with  his  hand  ; but  neither  rose,  nor  otherwise 
answered  or  threatened  her. 

"I  am  a woman,”  she  said,  confronting  him  stedfastly, 
"who  from  her  very  childhood  has  been  shamed  and 
steeled.  I have  been  offered  and  rejected,  put  up  and 
appraised,  until  my  very  soul  has  sickened.  I have  not 
had  an  accomplishment  or  grace  that  might  have  been  a 
resource  to  me,  but  it  has  been  paraded,  and  vended  to 
enhance  my  value,  as  if  the  common  crier  had  called  it 
through  the  streets.  My  poor,  proud  friends,  have 
looked  on  and  approved  ; and  every  tie  between  us  has 
been  deadened  in  my  breast.  There  is  not  one  of  them 
for  whom  I care,  as  I could  care  for  a pet-dog.  I stand 
alone  in  the  world,  remembering  well  what  a hollow 
world  it  has  been  to  me,  and  what  a hollow  part  of  it  I 
have  been  myself.  You  know  this,  and  you  know  that 
my  fame  with  it  is  worthless  to  me.” 

"Yes  ; I imagined  that,”  he  said. 

"And  calculated  on  it,”  she  rejoined,  " and  so  pursued 
me.  Grown  too  indifferent  for  any  opposition  but  indif- 
ference, to  the  daily  working  of  the  hands  that  had 
moulded  me  to  this  ; and  knowing  that  my  marriage 
would  at  least  prevent  their  hawking  of  me  up  and  down  ; 
I suffered  myself  to  be  sold  as  infamously  as  any  wo- 
man with  a halter  round  her  neck  is  sold  in  any  market- 
place. You  know  that.” 

" Yes,”  he  said,  showing  all  his  teeth.  " I know  that.” 

" And  calculated  on  it,”  she  rejoined  once  more,  " and 
so  pursued  me.  From  my  marriage  day,  I found  myself  ex- 


476 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


posed  to  such  new  shame— to  such  solicitation  and  pursuit 
(expressed  as  clearly  as  if  it  had  been  written  in  the  coarsest 
words,  and  thrust  into  my  hand  at  every  turn)  from  one 
mean  villain,  that  I felt  as  if  I had  never  known  humili- 
ation till  that  time.  This  shame  my  husband  fixed  upon 
me  ; hemmed  me  round  with,  himself  ; steeped  me  in, 
with  his  own  hands,  and  of  his  own  act,  repeated  hun 
dreds  of  times.  And  thus — forced  by  the  two  from 
every  point  of  rest  I had — forced  by  the  two  to  yield  up 
the  last  retreat  of  love  and  gentleness  within  me,  or  to 
be  a new  misfortune  on  its  innocent  object— driven  from 
each  to  each,  and  beset  by  one  when  I escaped  the  other 
— my  anger  rose  almost  to  distraction  against  both.  I do 
not  know  against  which  it  rose  higher — the  master  or  the 
man  ! ” 

He  watched  her  closely,  as  she  stood  before  him  in  the 
very  triumph  of  her  indignant  beauty.  She  was  resolute, 
he  saw,  undauntable  ; with  no  more  fear  of  him  than  of 
a worm. 

What  should  I say  of  honour  or  of  chastity  to  you  1 
she  went  on.  “What  meaning  would  it  have  to  you 
what  meaning  would  it  have  from  me  ! But  if  I tell  you 
that  the  lightest  touch  of  your  hand  makes  my  blood  cold 
with  antipathy  ; that  from  the  hour  when  I first  saw  and 
hated  you,  to  now,  when  my  instinctive  repugnance  is  en> 
hanced  by  every  minute’s  knowledge  of  you  I have  since 
had,  you  have  been  a loathsome  creature  to  me  which 
has  not  its  like  on  earth  ; how  then  ? ” 

He  answered,  with  a faint  laugh,  ‘‘Ay!  how  then,  my 
queen  ? ” 

“ On  that  night,  when  emboldened  by  the  scene  you 
had  assisted  at,  you  dared  come  to  my  room  and  speak  to 
me,”  she  said,  “ what  passed?” 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  laughed  again. 

“ What  passed  ?”  she  said. 

“ Your  memory  is  so  distinct,”  he  returned,  “ that  1 
have  no  doubt  you  can  recall  it.” 

“I  can,”  she  said.  “Hear  it!  Proposing  then,  this 
flight — not  this  flight,  but  the  flight  you  thought  it — you 
told  me  that  in  the  having  given  you  that  meeting,  and 
leaving  you  to  be  discovered  there,  if  you  so  thought  fit; 
and  in  the  having  suffered  you  to  be  alone  with  me  many 
times  before, — and  having  made  the  opportunities,  you 
said, — and  in  the  having  openly  avowed  to  you  that  I had 
no  feeling  for  my  husband  but  aversion,  and  no  care  for 
myself — I was  lost  . I had  given  you  the  power  to  tra« 
duce  my  name  ; and  I lived,  in  virtuous  reputation,  at 
the  pleasure  of  your  breath.” 

“ All  stratagems  in  love — ” he  interrupted,  smiling. 

The  old  adage — ” 

“On  that  night,”  said  Edith,  ' and  then  the  afcruggl® 


DOMBBY  AND  SON. 


477 


tliat  T long  liad  had  with  something  that  was  not  respect 
for  my  good  fame — that  was  I know  not  what — perhaps 
the  clinging  to  that  last  retreat — was  ended.  On  that 
night,  and  then,  I turned  from  everything  but  passion 
and  resentment.  I struck  a blow  that  laid  your  lofty 
master  in  the  dust,  and  set  you  there,  before  me,  loofi^* 
ing  at  me  now,  and  knowing  what  I mean.'* 

He  sprung  up  from  his  chair  with  a great  oath. 
She  put  her  hand  into  her  bosom,  and  not  a finger 
trembled,  not  a hair  upon  her  head  was  stirred.  He 
stood  still : she  too : the  table  and  chair  between 
them. 

When  I forget  that  this  man  put  his  lips  to  mine 
ihat  night,  and  held  me  in  his  arms  as  he  has  done 
again  to-night,"  said  Edith,  pointing  at  him  ; ‘‘  when 
i forget  the  taint  of  his  kiss  upon  my  cheek — the 
cheek  that  Florence  would  have  laid  her  guiltless  face 
against — when  I forget  my  meeting  with  her,  while 
that  taint  was  hot  upon  me,  and  in  what  a flood  the 
knowledge  rushed  upon  me  when  I saw  her,  that  in 
releasing  her  from  the  persecution  I had  caused  her 
by  my  love,  I brought  a shame  and  degradation  on  her 
iame  through  mine,  and  in  all  time  to  come  should  be 
'he  solitary  figure  representing  in  her  mind  her  first 
Avoidance  of  a guilty  creature — then.  Husband,  from 
whom  I stand  divorced  henceforth,  I will  forget  these 
iast  two  years,  and  undo  what  I have  done,  and  un- 
deceive you  ! " 

Her  flashing  eyes,  uplifted  for  a moment,  lighted 
again  on  Carker,  and  she  held  some  letters  out  in  her 
left  hand. 

‘‘ See  these  ! " she  said,  contemptuously.  “You  have 
addressed  these  to  me  in  the  false  name  you  go  by  ; 
one  here,  some  elsewhere  on  my  road.  The  seals  are 
unbroken.  Take  them  back  I” 

She  crunched  them  in  her  hand,  and  tossed  them, to 
his  feet.  And  as  she  looked  upon  him  now,  a smile 
was  on  her  face. 

“ We  meet  and  part  to-night,”  she  said.  You  have 
fallen  on  Sicilian  days  and  sensual  rest,  too  soon.  You 
might  have  cajoled,  and  fawned,  and  played  your  trai- 
tor's part,  a little  longer,  and  grown  richer.  You  purchase 
your  voluptuous  retirement  dear  ! " 

“Edith  !"  he  retorted  menacing  her  with  his  hand. 
“ Sit  down  ! Have  done  with  this  I What  devil  pos- 
sesses you  ? ” 

“Their  name  is  Legion,”  she  replied,  uprearing  her 
proud  form  as  if  she  would  have  crushed  him  ; “you  and 
your  master  have  raised  them  in  a fruitful  house,  and 
they  shall  tear  you  both.  False  to  him,  false  to  his  inno- 
cent child,  false  everyway  and  everywhere,  go  forth  and 


478 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


boast  of  me,  and  gnash  your  teeth  for  once  to  know  that 
you  are  lying  ! ” 

He  stood  before  her,  muttering  and  menacing,  and 
scowling  round  as  if  for  something  that  would  help  him 
to  conquer  her  ; but  with  the  same  indomitable  spirit  she 
opposed  him,  without  faltering. 

In  every  vaunt  you  make,’'  she  said,  I have  my  tri- 
umph. I single  out  in  you  the  meanest  man  I know,  the 
parasite  and  tool  of  the  proud  tyrant,  that  his  wound  may 
go  the  deeper  and  may  rankle  more.  Boast,  and  revenge 
me  on  him  ! You  know  how  you  came  here  to-night  ; 
you  know  how  you  stand  cowering  there ; you  see  your 
self  in  colours  quite  as  despicable,  if  not  as  odious,  as 
those  in  which  I see  you.  Boast  then,  and  revenge  me 
on  yourself.” 

The  foam  was  on  his  lips  ; the  wet  stood  on  his  fore- 
head. If  she  should  have  faltered  once,  for  only  one  half 
moment,  he  would  have  pinioned  her ; but  she  was  as 
firm  as  a rock,  and  her  searching  eyes  never  left  him. 

"‘We  don’t  part  so,”  he  said.  “Do  you  think  I am 
drivelling,  to  let  you  go  in  your  mad  temper?” 

“Do  you  think,”  she  answered,  “that  I am  to  be 
stayed?” 

“I’ll  try,  my  dear,”  he  said  with  a ferocious  gesture 
of  his  head. 

“ God’s  mercy  on  you,  if  you  try  by  coming  near  me  ! ” 
she  replied. 

“And  what,”  he  said,  “if  there  are  none  of  these  same 
boasts  and  vaunts  on  my  part?  what  if  I were  to  turn 
too?  Come  ! ” and  his  teeth  fairly  shone  again.  “ We 
must  make  a treaty  of  this,  or  I may  take  some  unex- 
pected course.  Sit  down,  sit  down  ! ” 

“ Too  late  ! ” she  cried,  with  eyes  that  seemed  to 
sparkle  fire.  “I  have  thrown  my  fame  and  good  name 
to  the  winds  ! I have  resolved  to  bear  the  shame  that 
will  attach  to  me — resolved  to  know  that  it  attaches 
falsely — that  you  know  it  too—and  that  he  does  not,  nev 
^ can.  and  never  shall.  I’ll  die  and  make  no  sign.  For 
this  I am  here  alone  with  you,  at  the  dead  of  night.  For 
this,  I have  met  you  here,  in  a false  name,  as  your  wife. 
For  this,  I have  been  seen  here  by  those  men,  and  left 
here.  Nothing  can  save  you  now.” 

He  would  have  sold  his  soul  to  root  her,  in  her  beauty, 
to  the  floor,  and  make  her  arms  drop  at  her  sides,  and 
have  her  at  his  mercy.  But  he  could  not  look  at  her, 
and  not  be  afraid  of  her.  He  saw  a strength  within  her 
that  was  resistless.  He  saw  that  she  was  desperate,  and 
that  her  unquenchable  hatred  of  him  would  stop  at  noth^* 
ing.  His  eyes  followed  the  hand  that  was  put  with  such 
rugged  uncongenial  purpose  into  her  white  bosom,  and 
he  thought  that  if  it  struck  at  him,  and  failed,  it  would 
strike  there,  just  as  soon. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


479 


He  did  not  venture,  therefore,  to  advance  towards  her  * 
but  the  door  by  which  he  had  entered  was  behind  him, 
and  he  stepped  back  to  lock  it. 

“Lastly,  take  my  warning  ! look  to  yourself  !”  she 
said,  and  smiled  again.  “ You  have  been  betrayed,  as 
all  betrayers  are.  It  has  been  made  known  that  you  are 
in  this  place,  or  v/ere  to  be,  or  have  been.  If  I live,  I 
saw  my  husband  in  a carriage  in  the  street  to-night  I ” 

“ Strumpet,  it’s  false,”  cried  Carker. 

At  the  moment,  the  bell  rang  loudly  in  the  hall.  He 
turned  white,  as  she  held  her  hand  up  like  an  enchant- 
ress, at  whose  invocation  the  sound  had  come. 

“ Hark  ! do  you  hear  it?” 

He  set  his  back  against  the  door  ; for  he  saw  a change 
in  her,  and  fancied  she  was  coming  on  to  pass  him.  But, 
in  a moment,  she  was  gone  through  the  opposite  doors 
communicating  with  the  bed-chamber,  and  they  shut 
upon  her. 

Once  turned,  once  changed  in  her  inflexible  unyielding 
look,  he  felt  that  he  could  cope  with  her.  He  thought  a 
sudden  terror,  occasioned  by  this  night  alarm,  had  sub- 
dued her  ; not  the  less  readily,  for  her  overwrought  con- 
dition. Throwing  open  the  doors,  he  followed,  almost 
instantly. 

But  the  room  was  dark  ; and  as  she  made  no  answer  to 
his  call,  he  was  fain  to  go  back  for  the  lamp.  He  held 
it  up,  and  looked  round  everywhere,  expecting  to  see  her 
crouching  in  some  corner  ; but  the  room  was  empty.  So, 
into  the  drawing-room  and  dining-room  he  went,  in  sue* 
cession,  with  the  uncertain  steps  of  a man  in  a strange 
place  ; looking  fearfully  about,  and  prying  behind  screens 
and  couches  ; but  she  was  not  there.  No,  nor  in  the  hall, 
which  was  so  bare  that  he  could  see  that,  at  a glance. 

All  this  time,  the  ringing  at  the  bell  was  constantly 
renewed,  and  those  without  were  beating  at  the  door. 
He  put  his  lamp  down  at  a distance,  and  going  near  it, 
listened.  There  were  several  voices  talking  together  ; 
at  least  two  of  them  in  English  ; and  though  the  door 
was  thick,  and  there  was  great  confusion,  he  knew  one 
of  these  too  well  to  doubt  whose  voice  it  was. 

He  took  up  his  lamp  again,  and  came  back  quickly 
through  all  the  rooms,  stopping  as  he  quitted  each,  and 
looking  round  for  her,  with  the  light  raised  above  his 
head.  He  was  standing  thus  in  the  bed-chamber,  when 
the  door  leading  to  the  little  passage  in  the  wall  caught 
his  eye.  He  went  to  it,  and  found  it  fastened  on  the 
other  side  ; but  she  had  dropped  a veil  in  going  through 
and  shut  it  in  the  door. 

All  this  time  the  people  on  the  stairs  were  ringing  at 
the  bell,  and  knocking  with  their  hands  and  feet. 

He  was  not  a coward ; but  these  sounds ; what  had 


480 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


gone  before  ; the  strangeness  of  the  place,  which  had 
confused  him,  even  in  his  return  from  the  hall  ; the 
frustration  of  his  schemes  (for  strange  to  say,  he  woul(? 
have  been  much  bolder,  if  they  had  succeeded) ; the  un- 
seasonable time  ; the  recollection  of  having  no  one  near 
to  whom  he  could  appeal  for  any  friendly  office  ; abov€* 
all,  the  sudden  sense,  which  made  even  his  heart  beat, 
like  lead,  that  the  man  whose  confidence  he  had  out- 
raged, and  whom  he  had  so  treacherously  deceived,  was 
there  to  recognise  and  challenge  him  with  his  mask 
plucked  off  his  face  ; struck  a panic  through  him.  He 
tried  the  door  in  which  the  veil  was  shut,  but  couldn’t 
force  it.  He  opened  one  of  the  windows,  and  looked  down 
through  the  lattice  of  the  blind,  into  the  court-yard  ; but 
it  was  a high  leap,  and  the  stones  were  pitiless. 

The  ringing  and  knocking  still  continuing — his  panie 
too— he  went  back  to  the  door  in  the  bed-chamber^  aiiid 
wHh  some  new  efforts,  each  more  stubborn  than  the 
last,  wrenched  it  open.  Seeing  the  little  staircase  not 
far  off,  and  feeling  the  night-air  coming  up,  he  stole 
back  for  his  hat  and  coat,  made  the  door  as  secure 
after  him  as  he  could,  crept  down  lamp  in  hand,  extin- 
guished it  on  seeing  the  street,  and  having  put  it  in  a 
«omer,  went  out  where  the  stars  were  shining. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

Boh  the  Grinder  loses  his  Place. 

Thhe  porter  at  the  iron  gate  which  shut  the  court-yard 
from  the  street,  had  left  the  little  wicket  of  his  house 
open,  and  was  gone  away  ; no  doubt  to  mingle  in  the 
distant  noise  at  the  door  on  the  great  staircase.  Lifting 
the  latch  softly,  Carker  crept  out,  and  shutting  the 
jangling  gate  after  him  with  as  little  noise  as  possible, 
hurried  oft*. 

In  the  fever  of  his  mortification  and  unavailing  rage, 
the  panic  that  had  seized  upon  him  mastered  him  com 
pletely.  It  rose  to  such  a height  that  he  would  have 
blindly  encountered  almost  any  risk,  rather  than  meet 
the  man  of  whom,  two  hours  ago,  he  had  been  utterly 
regardless.  His  fierce  arrival  which  he  had  never  ex 
pected  ; the  sound  of  his  voice  ; their  having  been  ro 
near  a meeting  face  to  face  ; he  would  have  braved  out 
this,  after  the  first  momentary  shock  of  alarm,  and  would 
have  put  as  bold  a front  upon  his  guilt  as  any  villain. 
But  the  springing  of  his  mine  upon  himself,  seemed  to 
have  rent  and  shivered  all  his  hardihood  and  self 
reliance.  Spurned  like  any  reptile ; entrapped  and 


DOMEEY  AND  SON. 


481 


mocked  turoed  upoii;,  and  trodden  down  by  the  prond 
woman  whose  mind  lie  had  slowly  poisoned,  as  he 
thought,  until  she  had  sunk  into  the  mere  creature  cf 
his  pleasure ; undeceived  in  his  deceit,  and  with  his 
fox's  hide  stripped  of^,  he  sneaked  away,  abashed,  de- 
graded, and  afraid. 

Some  other  terror  came  upon  him  quite  removed  from 
this  of  being  pursued,  suddenly  like  an  electric  shock, 
as  he  was  creeping  through  the  streets.  Some  visionary 
terror,  unintelligible  and  inexplicable,  associated  with 
a trembling  of  the  ground^ — a rush  and  sweep  of 
something  through  the  air,  like  Death  upon  the  wing. 
He  shrunk,  as  if  to  let  the  thing  go  by.  It  was  not  gone, 
it  never  had  been  there,  yet  what  a startling  horror  it 
had  left  behind. 

He  raised  his  wicked  face,  so  full  of  trouble,  to  the 
night  sky  where  the  stars,  so  full  of  peace,  were  shining 
on  him  as  they  had  been  when  he  first  stole  out  into  the 
air  ; and  stopped  to  think  what  he  should  do.  The 
dread  of  being  hunted  in  a strange  remote  place,  where 
the  laws  might  not  protect  him — the  novelty  of  the 
feeling  that  it  was  strange  and  remote,  originating  in  his 
being  left  alone  so  suddenly  amid  the  ruins  of  his  plans 
— his  greater  dread  of  seeking  refuge  now,  in  Italy  or  in 
Sicily,  where  men  might  be  hired  to  assassinate  him,  he 
thought,  at  any  dark  street  corner—the  waywardness  of 
guilt  and  fear-— perhaps  some  sympathy  of  action  with 
the  turning  back  of  all  his  schemes— impelled  him  to 
turn  back  too,  and  go  to  England, 

I am  safer  there,  in  any  case.  If  I should  not  de- 
cide," he  thought,  ‘"to  give  this  fool  a meeting,  I am 
less  likely  to  be  traced  there,  than  abroad  here,  now. 
And  if  I should  (this  cursed  fit  being  over,)  at  least  I 
shall  not  be  alone,  without  a soul  to  speak  to,  or  advise 
with,  or  stand  by  me.  I shall  not  be  run  in  upon  and  wor 
lied  like  a rat." 

He  muttered  Edith's  name,  and  clenched  his  hand. 
As  he  crept  along,  in  the  shadow  of  the  massive  build- 
ings, he  set  his  teeth,  and  muttered  dreadful  impreca- 
tions on  her  head,  and  looked  from  side  to  side,  as  if  in 
search  of  her.  Thus,  he  stole  on  to  the  gate  of  an  inn- 
yard.  The  people  were  a-bed  ; but  his  ringing  at  the 
bell  soon  produced  a man  with  a lantern,  in  company 
with  whom  he  was  presently  in  a dim  coach-house,  bar- 
gaining for  the  hire  of  an  old  phaeton,  to  Paris. 

The  bargain  v/as  a short  one  ; and  the  horses  were  soon 
sent  for.  Leaving  word  that  the  carriage  was  to  follow 
him  when  they  came,  he  stole  awa.7,  again  beyond  the 
town,  past  the  old  ramparts  out  on  the  open  road,  which 
seemed  to  glide  away  along  the  dark  plain,  like  a stream  I 

Whither  did  it  flow  ? VV^hat  was  the  end  of  it  ? As  he 
VOL.  12  -U 


482 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


paused,  witli  some  such  suggestion  within  him,  looking 
over  the  gloomy  flat  where  the  slender  trees  marked  out 
the  way,  again  that  flight  of  Death  came  rushing  up, 
again  went  impetuous  and  resistless,  again  was  noth- 
ing but  a horror  in  his  mind,  dark  as  the  scene  and  un- 
defined as  its  remotest  verge. 

There  was  no  wind  ; there  was  no  passing  shadow  on 
the  deep  shade  of  the  night ; there  was  no  noise.  The 
city  lay  behind  him,  lighted  here  and  there,  and  starry 
worlds  were  hidden  by  the  masonry  of  spire  and  roof 
that  hardly  made  out  any  shapes  against  the  sky.  Dark 
and  lonely  distance  lay  around  him  everywhere,  and 
the  clocks  were  faintly  striking  two. 

He  v^ent  forward  for  ’what  appeared  a long  time,  and 
a long  way  ; often  stopping  to  listen.  At  last  the  ring- 
ing of  horses’  bells  greeted  his  anxious  ears.  Now  softer, 
and  now  louder,  now  inaudible,  now  ringing  very  slowly 
over  bad  ground,  now  brisk  and  merry,  it  came  on  ; un- 
til with  a loud  shouting  and  lashing,  a shadovry  postil- 
ion muffled  to  the  eyes,  checked  his  four  struggling 
horses  at  his  side. 

Who  goes  there  I Monsieur  ? ’’ 

^^Yes.” 

Monsieur  has  walked  a long  way  in  the  dark  mid 
night.” 

‘‘  No  matter.  Every  one  to  his  taste.  Were  there 
any  other  horses  ordered  at  the  post-house  ?” 

A thousand  devils  ! — and  pardon  I other  horses  ? at 
this  hour?  No.” 

Listen,  my  friend.  I am  much  hurried.  Let  us 
see  how  fast  we  can  travel  1 The  faster  the  more  money 
there  will  be  to  drink.  Off  we  go  then  ! Quick  ! ” 

‘‘Halloa!  Whoopi  Halloa  I Hi!”  Away,  at  a 
gallop,  over  the  black  landscape,  scattering  the  dust  and 
dirt  like  spray  I 

The  clatter  and  commotion  echoed  to  the  hurry  and 
discordance  of  the  fugitive’s  ideas.  Nothing  clear  with' 
out  and  nothing  clear  within.  Objects  flitting  past, 
merging  into  one  another,  dimly  discried,  confusedly 
lost  sight  of,  gone  ! Beyond  the  changing  scraps  of 
fence  and  cottage  immediately  upon  the  road,  a lowering 
waste.  Beyond  the  shifting  images  that  rose  up  in  his 
mind  and  vanished  as  they  showed  themselves,  a 
black  expanse  of  dread  and  rage  and  baffled  villany.  Oc- 
casionally, a sigh  of  mountain  air  came  from  the  distant 
Jura,  fading  along  the  plain.  Sometimes  that  rush  which 
was  so  furious  and  horrible,  again  came  sweeping  through 
his  fancy,  passed  away,  and  left  a chill  upon  his  blood. 

The  lamps,  gleaming  on  the  medley  of  horses’  heads, 
iurnbled  with  the  shadowy  driver,  and  the  fluttering  of 
liis  cloak,  made  a thousand  indistinct  shapes,  answering 


dOmbey  and  son. 


483 


fco  his  thoughts.  Shadows  of  familiar  people,  stooping 
at  their  desks  and  hooks,  in  their  remembered  attitudes  ; 
strange  apparitions  of  the  man  whom  he  was  flying  from, 
or  of  Edith  ; repetitions  in  the  ringing  bells  and  rolling 
wheels,  of  words  that  had  been  spoken;  confusion  of  time 
and  place,  making  last  night  a month  ago,  a month  ago 
last  night-home  now  distant  beyond  hope,  now  instantly 
accessible  ; commotion,  discord,  hurry,  darkness,  and 
confusion  in  his  mind,  and  all  around  him. — Halloa  I 
Hi  ! away  at  a gallop  over  the  black  landscape ; dust 
and  dirt  flying  like  spray,  the  smoking  horses  snorting 
and  plunging  as  if  each  of  them  were  ridden  by  a demon, 
away  in  a frantic  triumph  on  the  dark  road — whither  ! 

Again  the  nameless  shock  comes  speeding  up,  and  as 
it  passes,  the  bells  ring  in  his  ears  “whither?"'  The 
wheels  roar  in  his  ears  “whither?"  All  the  noise  and 
rattle  shapes  itself  into  that  cry.  The  lights  and  sha- 
dows  dance  upon  the  horses’  heads  like  imps.  No  stop= 
ping  now  : no  slackening  I On,  on  ! Away  with  him  upon 
the  dark  road  wildly  ! 

He  could  not  think  to  any  purpose.  He  could  not 
separate  one  subject  of  reflection  from  another,  sufficient- 
ly to  dwell  upon  it,  by  itself,  for  a minute  at  a time. 
The  crash  of  his  project  for  the  gaining  of  a voluptuous 
compensation  for  past  restraint ; the  over  throve  of  his 
treachery  to  one  who  had  been  true  and  generous  to  him, 
but  whose  least  proud  word  and  look  he  had  treasured 
up,  at  interest,  for  years— for  false  and  subtle  men  will 
always  secretly  despise  and  dislike  the  object  upon 
which  they  fawn,  and  always  resent  the  payment  and 
receipt  of  homage  that  they  know  to  be  worthless  ; these 
were  the  themes  uppermost  in  his  mind.  A lurking 
rage  against  the  woman  who  had  so  entrapped  him  and 
avenged  herself  was  always  there  ; crude  and  misshapen 
schemes  of  retaliation  upon  her,  floated  in  his  brain  ; but 
nothing  was  distinct.  A hurry  and  contradiction  per- 
vaded all  his  thoughts.  Even  while  he  was  so  busy 
with  this  fevered,  ineffectual  thinking,  his  one  constant 
Idea  was,  that  he  would  postpone  reflection  until  some 
Indefinite  time. 

Then,  the  old  days  before  the  second  marriage  rose  up 
In  his  remembrance.  He  thought  how  jealous  he  had 
been  of  tho  boy,  how  jealous  he  had  been  of  the  girl, 
how  artfully  he  had  kept  intruders  at  a distance,  and 
drawn  a circle  round  his  dupe  that  none  but  himself 
should  cross  , and  then  he  thought,  had  he  done  all  this 
to  be  flying  now,  like  a scared  thief,  from  only  the  poor 
dupe? 

He  could  have  laid  hands  upon  himself  for  his  coward- 
ice, but  it  was  the  very  shadow  of  his  defeat,  and  could 
not  be  separated  from.  it.  To  have  his  confidence  in  his 


484 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


own  knavery  so  shattered  at  a blow — to  be  within  his 
own  knowledge  such  a miserable  tool — was  like  being 
paralysed.  With  an  impotent  ferocity  he  raged  at  Ediths 
and  hated  Mr.  Dombey  and  hated  himself,  but  still  ho 
fled,  and  could  do  nothing  else. 

Again  and  again  he  listened  for  the  sound  of  wheels 
behind.  Again  and  again  his  fancy  heard  it,  coming  on 
louder  and  louder.  At  last  he  was  so  persuaded  of  this, 
that  he  cried  out,  Stop  ! preferring  even  the  loss  of 
ground  to  such  uncertainty. 

The  word  soon  brought  carriage,  horses,  driver,  all  in 
a heap  together,  across  the  road. 

‘•'The  devil!”  cried  the  driv^er,  looking  over  his 
shoulder.  “ What's  the  matter  ? ” 

“ Hark  ! What's  that  ? ” 

“ What?” 

“ That  noise.” 

“ Ah  Heaven,  be  quiet,  cursed  brigand  I ” to  a horso 
who  shook  his  bells.  “ What  noise  ?” 

“ Behind.  Is  it  not  another  carriage  at  a gallop  ? 
There  ! what's  that  ? ” 

“ Miscreant  with  a pig's  head,  stand  still  ! ” to  an 
other  horse,  who  bit  another,  who  frightened  the  other 
two,  who  plunged  and  backed.  “ There  is  nothing 
coming.” 

“ Nothing.” 

“No,  nothing  but  the  day  yonder.^"' 

“ You  are  right,  I think.  I hear  nothing  now,  indeed. 
Goon  !” 

The  entangled  equipage,  half  hidden  in  the  reeking 
cloud  from  the  horses,  goes  on  slowly  at  first,  for  the 
driver,  checked  unnecessarily  in  his  progress,  sulkily 
takes  out  a pocket  knife,  and  puts  a new  lash  to  his 
whip.  Then  “ Hallo,  whoop  ! Hallo,  hi  ! ” Away  once 
more,  savagely. 

And  now  the  stars  faded,  and  the  day  glimmered,  and 
standing  in  the  carriage,  looking  back,  he  could  discern 
the  track  by  which  he  had  come,  and  see  that  there  was 
no  traveller  within  view,  on  all  the  heavy  expanse.  And 
soon  it  was  broad  day,  and  the  sun  began  to  shine  on 
corn-fields  and  vineyards  ; and  solitary  labourers,  risen 
from  little  temporary  huts  by  heaps  of  stones  upon  the 
road,  were,  here  and  there,  at  work  repairing  the  high 
way,  or  eating  bread.  By-and-by  there  were  peasants 
going  to  their  daily  labour,  or  to  market,  or  lounging  at 
the  doors  of  poor  cottages,  gazing  idly  at  him  as  he 
passed.  And  then  there  was  a post-yard,  ankle- deep  in 
mud,  with  steaming  dung  hills  and  vast  outhouses 
half  ruined ; and  looking  on  this  dainty  prospect,  an 
Immense,  old,  shapeless,  glaring,  stone  chateau,  with  half 
its  windows  blinded,  and  green  damp  crawling  lazily 


BOMBEY  AND  SON. 


485 


over  it,  from  tlie  balustraded  terrace  to  tlie  taper  tips  of 
the  extinguishers  upon  the  turrets 

Gathered  up  moodily  in  a corner  of  the  carriag-e,  and 
only  intent  on  going  fast — except  when  he  stood  up,  for 
a mile  together,  and  looked  back  ; which  ho  would  do 
whenever  there  was  a piece  of  open  country-yhe  went 
on,  still  postponing  thought  indefinitely,  and  still  always 
tormented  wit^  -Hhinking  to  no  purpose. 

Shame,  disappointment,  and  discomfiture  gnawed  at 
his  heart , a constant  apprehension  of  being  overtaken, 
or  met — for  he  was  groundlessly  afraid  even  of  travellers, 
who  came  towards  him  by  the  way  he  was  going — op- 
pressed him  heavily.  The  same  intolerable  awe  and 
dread  that  had  come  upon  him,  in  the  night,  returned 
unweakened  in  the  day.  The  monotonous  ringing  of 
the  bells  and  tramping  of  the  horses  ; the  monotony  of 
his  anxiety,  and  useless  rage  *,  the  monotonous  wheel  of 
fear,  regret,  and  passion,  he  kept  turning  round  and 
round  ; made  the  journey  like  a vision,  m which  nothing 
was  quite  real  but  his  own  torment. 

It  was  a vision  of  long  roads  , that  stretched  away 
liX)  an  horizon,  always  receding  and  never  gained  , of  ilh 
paved  towns,  up  hill  and  down,  where  faces  came  to 
dark  doors  and  ill -glazed  windows,  and  where  rows  of 
mud-bespattered  cows  and  oxen  were  tied  up  for  sale  in 
the  long  narrow  streets,  butting  and  lowing,  and  receiv 
mg  blows  on  their  blunt  heads  from  bludgeons  that 
might  have  beaten  them  in;  of  bridges,  crosses,  churches, 
postyards,  new  horses  being  put  in  against  their  wills, 
and  the  horses  of  the  last  stage  reeking,  panting,  and 
laying  their  drooping  heads  together  dolefully  at  stable 
doors;  of  little  cemeteries  with  black  crosses  settled  side 
w^ays  in  the  graves,  and  withered  wreaths  upon  them 
dropping  away  ; again  of  long,  long  roads,  dragging 
themselves  out,  up  hill  and  down,  to  the  treacherous 
horizon. 

Of  morning,  noon,  and  sunset  ; night,  and  the  rising 
of  an  early  moon.  Of  long  roads  temporarily  left  be 
hind,  and  a rough  pavement  reached  ; of  battering  and 
clattering  over  it,  and  looking  up,  among  house-roofs,  at 
a great  church-tower  ; of  getting  out  and  eating  hastily, 
and  drinking  draughts  of  wine  that  had  no  cheering  influ- 
ence , of  coming  forth  afoot,  among  a host  of  beggars — 
blind  men  with  quivering  eyelids,  led  by  old  women 
holding  candles  to  their  faces  ; idiot  girls  ; the  lame,  the 
epileptic,  and  the  palsied— of  passing  through  the  clam- 
our, and  looking  from  his  seat  at  the  upturned  coiinte 
nances  and  outstretched  hands,  with  a hurried  dread  oi 
reoognising  some  pursuer  pressing  forward- — of  gallop* 
ing  away  again,  upon  the  long,  long  road,  gathered  up^ 
dull  and  stunned,  in  his  corner,  or  rising  to  see  wherc^ 


486 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENSc 


the  moon  shone  faintly  on  a patch  of  the  same  endiess 
road  miles  away,  or  looking  back  to  see  who  followed. 

Of  never  sleeping,  but  sometimes  dozing  with  unclosed 
eyes,  and  springing  up  with  a start,  and  a reply  aloud 
to  an  imaginary  voice.  Of  cursing  himself  for  being 
there,  for  having  fled,  for  having  let  her  go,  for  not  hav 
ing  confronted  and  defied  him.  Of  having  a deadly 
quarrel  vfith  the  whole  world,  but  chiefly  with  himself. 
Of  blighting  everything  with  his  black  mood  as  he  v/as 
carried  on  and  away. 

It  was  a fevered  vision  of  things  past  and  present  all 
confounded  together,  of  his  life  and  journey  blended 
into  one.  Of  being  madly  hurried  somewhere,  whither 
he  must  go.  Of  old  scenes  starting  up  among  the  novel- 
ties through  which  he  travelled.  Of  musing  and  brood- 
ing over  what  was  past  and  distant;,  and  seeming  to 
take  no  notice  of  the  actual  objects  he  encountered, 
but  with  a wearisome  exhausting  consciousness  of  being 
bewildered  by  them,  and  having  their  images  all  crowds 
ed  in  his  hot  brain  after  they  were  gone. 

A vision  of  change  upon  change,  and  still  the  same 
monotony  of  bells  and  wheels,  and  horses’  feet,  and  no 
rest.  Of  town  and  country,  postyards,  horses,  drivers, 
hill  and  valley,  light  and  darkness,  road  and  pavement, 
height  and  hollow,  wet  weather  and  dry,  and  still  the 
same  monotony  of  bells  and  wheels,  and  horses’  feet, 
and  no  rest.  A vision  of  tending  on  at  last,  towards  the 
distant  capital,  by  busier  roads,  and  sweeping  round,  by 
old  cathedrals,  and  dashing  through  small  towns  and 
villages,  less  thinly  scattered  on  the  road  than  formerly, 
and  sitting  shrouded  in  his  corner,  with  his  cloak  up  to 
his  face  as  people  passing  by  looked  at  him. 

Of  rolling  on  and  on,  always  postponing  thought,  and 
always  racked  with  thinking ; of  being  unable  to  reckon 
up  the  hours  he  had  been  upon  the  road,  or  to  comprehend 
tl?p  points  of  time  and  place  in  his  journey.  Of  being 
parched  and  giddy,  and  half  mad.  Of  pressing  on,  in 
spite  of  all,  as  if  he  could  not  stop,  and  coming  into 
Paris,  where  the  turbid  river  held  its  swift  course  un' 
disturbed,  between  two  brawling  streams  of  life  and 
tnotion. 

A troubled  vision,  then,  of  bridges,  quays,  inter 
minable  streets ; of  wine-shops,  water-carriers,  great 
crowds  of  people,  soldiers,  coaches,  military  drums,  ar 
cades.  Of  the  monotony  of  bells  and  wheels  and  horses' 
feet  being  at  length  lost  in  the  universal  din  and  uproar 
Of  the  gradual  subsidence  of  that  noise  as  he  passed  out 
in  another  carriage  by  a different  barrier  from  that 
which  he  had  entered.  Of  the  restoration,  as  he  travelled 
on  towards  the  sea-coast,  of  the  monotony  of  bells  and 
wheels,  and  horses*  feet,  and  no  rest. 


530MBEY  AND  SON. 


487 


Of  sunset  once  again,  and  nightfall.  Of  long  roads 
again,  and  dead  of  night,  and  feeble  lights  in  windows 
by  the  roadside;  and  still  the  old  monotony  of  hells  and 
wheels,  and  horses’  feet,  and  no  rest.  Of  dawn,  and 
daybreak,  and  the  rising  of  the  sun.  Of  toiling  slowly  up 
a hill,  and  feeling  on  its  top  the  fresh  sea-breeze  ; and 
seeing  the  morning  light  upon  the  edges  of  the  distant 
waves.  Of  coming  down  into  a harbour  when  the  tide 
was  at  its  full,  and  seeing  fishing-boats  float  in,  and  glad 
women  and  children  waiting  for  them.  Of  nets  and 
seamen’s  clothes  spread  out  to  dry  upon  the  shore  ; of 
busy  sailors,  and  their  voices  high  among  ships’  masts 
and  rigging ; of  the  buoyancy  and  brightness  of  the 
water,  and  the  universal  sparkling. 

Of  receding  from  the  coast,  and  looking  back  upon  it 
from  the  deck  when  it  was  a haze  upon  the  water,  with 
here  and  there  a little  opening  of  bright  land  where  the 
Sun  struck.  Of  the  swell,  and  flash,  and  murmur  of  the 
calm  sea.  Of  another  gray  line  on  the  ocean,  on  the  ves- 
sel’s track,  fast  growing  clearer  and  higher.  Of  cli:fis 
and  buildings,  and  a windmill,  and  a church,  becoming 
more  and  more  visible  upon  it.  Of  steaming  on  at  last 
into  smooth  water,  and  mooring  to  a pier  vfhence  groups 
of  people  looked  down,  greeting  friends  on  board.  Of 
disembarking,  passing  among  them  quickly,  shunning 
every  one  ; and  of  being  at  last  again  in  England. 

He  had  thought,  in  his  dream,  of  going  down  into  a 
remote  country  place  he  knew,  and  lying  quiet  there, 
while  he  secretly  informed  himself  of  what  transpired, 
and  determined  how  to  act.  Still  in  the  same  stunned 
condition,  he'remembered  a certain  station  on  the  rail- 
way, where  he  would  have  to  branch  off  to  his  place  of 
destination,  and  where  there  was  a quiet  inn.  Here  he 
indistinctly  resolved  to  tarry  and  rest. 

With  this  purpose  he  slunk  into  a railway  carriage  as 
quickly  as  he  could,  and  lying  there  wrapped  in  his 
cloak  as  if  he  were  asleep,  was  soon  borne  far  away  from 
the  sea,  and  deep  into  the  inland  green.  Arrived  at  his 
destination  he  looked  out,  and  surveyed  it  carefully.  He 
was  not  mistaken  in  his  impression  of  the  place.  It  was 
a retired  spot,  on  the  borders  of  a little  wood.  Only  one 
house,  newly-built,  or  altered  for  the  purpose,  stood 
there,  surrounded  by  its  neat  garden  ; the  small  town 
that  was  nearest,  w^s  some  miles  away.  Here  he  alighted 
then  ; and  going  straight  into  the  tavern,  unobserved  by 
any  one,  secured  tv/o  rooms  up  stairs  communicating 
with  each  other  and  sufficiently  retired. 

His  object  was  to  rest,  and  recover  the  command  of 
himself,  and  the  balance  of  his  mind.  Imbecile  discom- 
fiture and  rage — so  that,  as  he  walked  about  his  room,- 
he  ground  his  teeth— had  complete  possession  of  him. 


488 


WOI.KS  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


His  thoughts,  not  to  he  stopped  or  directed,  still  wan 
dered  where  they  would,  and  dragged  him  after  them. 
He  was  stupefied  and  he  was  wearied  to  death. 

But,  as  if  there  were  a curse  upon  him  that  he  should 
never  rest  again,  his  drowsy  senses  would  not  lose  their 
consciousness.  He  had  no  more  influence  with  them,  in 
this  regard,  than  if  they  had  been  another  man’s.  It 
was  not  that  they  forced  him  to  take  note  of  present 
sounds  and  objects,  but  that  they  would  not  be  diverted 
from  the  whole  hurried  vision  of  his  journey.  It  was 
constantly  before  him  all  at  once.  She  stood  there,  with 
her  dark,  disdainful  eyes  again  upon  him ; and  he  was 
riding  on  nevertheless,  through  town  and  country,  light 
and  darkness,  wet  weather  and  dry,  over  road  and  pave- 
ment, hill  and  valley,  height  and  hollow,  jaded  and 
scared  by  the  monotony  of  bells,  and  wheels,  and  horses’ 
feet,  and  no  rest. 

“What  day  is  this?”  he  asked  of  the  waiter,  who 
was  making  preparation  for  his  dinner. 

“ Day,  sir  ? ” 

“ Is  it  Wednesday  ? ” 

Wednesday?  No  sir,  Thursday,  sir.” 

“ I forgot.  How  goes  the  time  ? My  watch  is  un* 
wound.” 

“Wants  a few  minutes  of  five  o’clock,  sir.  Been 
travelling  a long  time,  sir,  perhaps  ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ By  rail,  sir?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Very  confusing,  sir.  Not  much  in  the  habit  of 
travelling  by  rail  myself,  sir,  but  gentlemen  frequently 
say  so.” 

“ Do  many  gentlemen  come  here  ? ” 

**  Pretty  well,  sir,  in  general.  Nobody  here  at  pres- 
ent. Bather  slack  just  now,  sir.  Everything  is  slack, 
sir.” 

He  made  no  answer  ; but  had  risen  into  a sitting  pos' 
ture  on  the  sofa  where  he  had  been  lying,  and  leaned 
forward  with  an  arm  on  each  knee,  staring  at  the  ground. 
He  could  not  master  his  own  attention  for  a minute  to- 
gether. It  rushed  away  where  it  would,  but  it  never, 
for  an  instant,  lost  itself  in  sleep. 

He  drank  a quantity  of  wflne  after  dinner,  in  vain.  No 
such  artificial  means  would  bring  sleep  to  his  eyes.  His 
thoughts,  more  incoherent,  dragged  him  more  unmerci- 
fully after  them — as  if  a v ^etch,  condemned  to  such  ex- 
piation, were  drawn  at  the  heels  vdld  horses.  No 
oblivion,  and  no  rest. 

How  long  he  sat  drinking  and  brooding,  and  being 
dragged  in  imagination  hither  and  thither,  no  one  could 
have  told  less  correctly  than  he.  But  he  knew  that  he 


BOMBEY  AND  SON, 


489 


had  been  sitting  a long  time  by  candle-ligM,  when  be 
started  up  and  listened,  in  a sudden  terror. 

For  now,  indeed,  it  was  no  fancy.  The  ground  shook, 
tne  house  rattled,  the  fierce  impetuous  rush  was  in  the 
air  ! He  felt  it  come  up,  and  go  darting  by  ; and  even 
when  he  had  hurried  to  the  wdndow^  and  saw  v/hat  it 
was,  he  stood,  shrinking  from  it,  as  if  it  wexe  not  safe  t@ 
look. 

A curse  upon  the  fiery  devil,  thundering  along  sc 
smoothly,  tracked  through  the  distant  valley  by  a glare 
of  light  and  lurid  smoke,  and  gone  I He  felt  as  if  he  had 
been  plucked  out  of  its  path,  and  saved  from  being  torn 
asunder.  It  made  him  shrink  and  shudder  even  now, 
when  its  faintest  hum  'was  hushed,  and  when  the  lines 
of  iron  road  he  could  trace  in  the  moonlight,  running  to 
a point,  were  as  empty  and  as  silent  as  a desert. 

Unable  to  rest,  and  irresistibly  attracted — or  he  thought 
so— to  this  road,  he  went  out,  and  lounged  on  the  brink 
of  it,  marking  the  way  the  train  had  gone,  by  the  yet 
smoking  cinders  that  were  lying  in  its  track.  After  a 
lounge  of  some  half  hour  in  the  direction  by  which  it 
bad  disappeared,  he  turned  and  walked  the  other  way— ^ 
still  keeping  to  the  brink  of  the  road — past  the  inn  gar* 
den,  and  a long  way  down  ; looking  curiously  at  the 
bridges,  signals,  lamps,  and  wondering  when  another 
Hcvil  would  come  by. 

A.  trembling  of  the  ground,  a quick  vibration  in  his 
ears  ; a distant  shriek  ; a dull  light  advancing,  quickly 
changed  to  two  red  eyes,  and  a fierce  fire,  dropping  glow'^ 
ing  coals  ; an  irresistible  bearing  on  of  a great  roaring 
and  dilating  mass  ; a high  wind,  and  a rattle — another 
come  and  gone,  and  ho  holding  to  a gate,  sis  if  to  save 
himself  1 

He  waited  for  another,  and  for  another.  He  walked 
back  to  his  former  point,  and  back  again  to  that,  and  still, 
through  the  w^earisome  vision  of  his  journey,  looked  for 
these  approaching  monsters.  He  loitered  about  the  sta- 
tion, waiting  until  one  should  stay  to  call  there  ; and 
when  one  did,  and  was  detached  for  water,  he  stood  par° 
allel  with  it,  watching  its  heavy  wdieels  and  brazen  front, 
and  thinking  what  a cruel  power  and  might  it  had.  Ugh  ! 
To  see  the  great  wheels  slowly  turning^  and  to  think  of 
being  run  down  and  crushed  ! 

Disordered  with  wine  and  want  of  rest— that  want 
which  nothing,  although  he  was  so  weary,  would’ appease 
— these  ideas  and  objects  assumed  a diseased  importance 
in  his  thoughts.  When  he  went  back  to  his  room,  which 
was  not  until  near  midnight,  they  still  haunted  him,  and 
he  sat  listening  for  the  coming  of  another. 

So  in  his  bed,  whither  he  repaired  with  no  hope  of 


'490 


worKS  OF  uHAKLEs  dicki;:to, 


sleep.  He  still  lay  listening  ; and  when  he  felt  the  trem- 
bling and  vibration,  got  up  and  went  to  the  window,  to 
watch  (‘'s  he  could  from  its  position)  the  dull  light  chang- 
ing uo  the  two  red  eyes,  and  the  fierce  fire  dropping  glow- 
ing coals,  and  the  rush  of  the  giant  as  it  fled  past,  and 
the  track  of  glare  and  smoke  along  the  valley.  Then  he 
would  glance  in  the  direction  by  which  he  intended  to 
depart  at  sunrise,  as  there  was  no  rest  for  him  th^re  ; 
and  would  lie  down  again,  to  be  troubled  by  the  vision  of 
his  journey,  and  the  old  monotony  of  bells  and  wheels 
and  horses'  feet,  until  another  came.  This  lasted  all 
night.  So  far  from  resuming  the  mastery  of  himself,  ho 
seemed,  if  possible,  to  lose  it  more  and  more,  as  the  night 
crept  on.  When  the  dawn  appeared,  he  was  still  tor- 
mented with  thinking,  still  postponing  thought  until  he 
should  be  in  a better  state  ; the  past,  present,  and  future 
all  floated  confusedly  before  him,  and  he  had  lost  all 
power  of  looking  steadily  at  any  one  of  them. 

'‘At  v/hat  time,’*  he  asked  the  man  who  had  waited  on 
him  over-night,  now  entering  with  the  candle,  “ do  I leave 
here,  did  you  say  ? " 

"About  a quarter  after  four^  sir.  Express  comes 
through  at  four,  sir.— Don’t  stop:  ~ 

He  passed  his  hand  across  his  throbbing  head,  and 
looked  at  his  watch.  Nearly  half-past  three. 

" Nobody  going  with  you,  sir,  probably,”  observed  the 
man.  " Two  gentlemen  here,  sir,  but  they’re  waiting  for 
the  train  to  London.  ” 

" I thought  you  said  there  was  nobody  here,”  said  Car- 
ker,  turning  upon  him  with  the  ghost  of  his  old  smile, 
when  he  was  angry  or  suspicious. 

' ' Not  then,  sir.  Two  gentlemen  came  in  the  night  by 
the  short  train  that  stops  here,  sir.  Warm  water,  sir?” 

" No  ; and  take  away  the  candle.  There’s  day  enough 
for  me.” 

Having  thrown  himself  upon  the  bed,  half-dressed,  ho 
was  at  the  window  as  the  man  left  the  room.  The  cold 
light  of  morning  had  succeeded  to  night,  and  there  was, 
already,  iri  the  sky,  the  red  suffusion  of  the  coming  sun. 
He  bathed  his  head  and  face  with  water — there  was  no 
cooling  influence  in  it  for  him — hurriedly  put  on  his 
clothes,  paid  what  he  owed,  and  went  out. 

The  air  struck  chill  and  comfortless  as  it  breathed 
upon  him.  There  was  a heavy  dew  ; and,  hot  as  he  was,  i: 
made  him  shiver.  After  a glance  at  the  place  where  ho 
had  walked  last  night,  and  at  the  signal -liglits  burning 
feebly  in  the  morning,  and  bereft  of  their  significance, 
he  turned  to  where  the  sun  was  rising,  and  beheld  it,  in 
its  glory,  as  it  broke  upon  the  scene. 

So  awful,  so  transcendent  in  its  beauty,  so  divinely  soL 
emu.  As  he  cast  his  faded  eyes  upon  it,  where  it  rose, 


HE  SAW  THE  FACE  CHANGE  FROM  ITS  VINDICTIVE  PASSION  TO  A PAINT  SICKNESS  AND  TERROR. 

— Dombey  and  Son,  Vol.  Twelve,  page  491 


492 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tranquil  and  serene,  unmoved  by  all  the  wrong  and  wick* 
edness  on  which  its  beams  had  shone  since  the  beginning 
of  the  world,  who  shall  say  that  some  weak  sense  of  vir- 
tue upon  Earth,  and  its  reward  in  Heaven,  did  not  mani- 
fest itself,  even  to  him  ? If  ever  he  remembered  sister 
or  brother  with  a touch  of  tenderness  and  remorse,  who 
shall  say  it  was  not  then  ? 

He  needed  some  such  touch  then.  Death  was  on  him. 
He  was  marked  oif  from  the  living  world,  and  going 
down  into  his  grave. 

He  paid  the  money  for  his  journey  to  the  country- 
place  he  had  thought  of ; and  was  walking  to  and  fro, 
alone,  looking  along  the  lines  of  iron,  across  the  valley  in 
Dne  direction,  and  towards  a dark  bridge  near  at  hand  in 
the  other  ; when,  turning  in  his  walk,  where  it  was 
bounded  by  one  end  of  the  wooden  stage  on  which  he 
paced  up  and  down,  he  saw  the  man  from  whom  he  had 
fled,  emerging  from  the  door  by  which  he  himself  had 
entered  there.  And  their  eyes  met. 

In  the  quick  unsteadiness  of  the  surprise,  he  staggered, 
and  slipped  on  the  road  below  him.  But  recovering  his 
feet  immediately,  he  stepped  back  a pace  or  two  upon 
that  road,  to  interpose  some  wider  space  between  them, 
and  looked  at  his  pursuer,  breathing  short  and  quick. 

He  heard  a shout — another — saw  the  face  change  from 
its  vindictive  passion  to  a faint  sickness  and  terror- 
felt  the  earth  tremble — knew  in  a moment  that  the  rush 
was  come — uttered  a shriek-looked  round — saw  the  red 
eyes,  bleared  and  dim,  in  the  daylight,  close  upon  him — 
was  beaten  down,  caught  up,  and  whirled  away  upon  a 
jagged  mill,  that  spun  him  round  and  round,  and  struck 
him  limb  from  limb,  and  licked  his  stream  of  life  up 
with  its  fiery  heat,  and  cast  his  mutilated  fragments  in 
the  air. 

When  the  traveller  who  had  been  recognised,  recover' 
ed  from  a swoon,  he  saw  them  bringing  from  a distance 
something  covered,  that  lay  heavy  and  still,  upon  a 
board,  between  four  men,  and  saw  that  others  drove 
some  dogs  away  that  snified  upon  the  road,  and  soaked 
his  blood  up,  with  a train  of  ashes. 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

Beceral  People  delighted^  and  the  Game  Chicken  disgusted  • 

The  Midshipman  was  all  alive.  Mr.  Toots  and  Susan 
had  arrived  at  last.  Susan  had  run  up-stairs  like  a young 
woman  bereft  of  her  senses,  and  Mr,  Toots  and  the 
Chicken  had  gone  into  the  parlour. 


BOMBEY  AND  SON. 


493 


Oh  my  own  pretty  darling  sweet  Miss  Floy  ! cried 
the  Nipper,  running  into  Florence’s  room,  to  think  that 
it  should  come  to  this  and  i should  find  you  here  my  own 
dear  dove  with  nobody  to  wait  upon  you  and  no  "home 
to  call  your  own  but  never,  never  will  I go  away  again 
Miss  Floy  for  though  I may  not  gather  moss  Fm  not  a 
rolling  stone  nor  is  my  heart  a stone  or  else  it  wouldn’t 
bust  as  it  is  busting  now  oh  dear  oh  dear  ! ” 

Pouring  out  these  words  without  the  faintest  indica- 
tion of  a stop,  of  any  sort,  Miss  Nipper,  on  her  knees 
beside  her  mistress,  hugged  her  close. 

‘‘Oh  love  !”  cried  Susan,  “I  know  all  that’s  past,  I 
know  it  all  my  tender  pet  and  I’m  a choking  give  me 
air  ! ” 

“ Susan,  dear  good  Susan  I"  said  Florence. 

“ Oh  bless  her  I I that  was  her  little  maid  when  she 
was  a little  child  ! and  is  she  really,  really  truly  going 
to  be  married  ! ’’  exclaimed  Susan,  in  a burst  of  pain  and 
pleasure,  pride  and  grief,  and  Heaven  knows  how  many 
other  conflicting  feelings.  \ 

“ Who  told  you  so?”  said  Florence. 

“ Oh  gracious  me  ! that  innocentest  creetur  Toots,^“ 
returned  Susan  hysterically.  “I  knew  he  must  bo 
right  my  dear,  because  he  took  on  so.  He’s  the  devot, 
edest  and  innocentest  infant  ! And  is  my  darling,’* 
pursued  Susan,  with  another  close  embrace  and  burst  of 
tears,  “ really,  really  going  to  be  married  ! ” 

The  mixture  of  compassion,  pleasure,  tenderness,  pra 
tection,  and  regret  with  which  the  Nipper  constantly 
recurred  to  this  subject,  and  at  every  such  recurrence 
raised  her  head  to  look  in  the  young  face  and  kiss  it. 
and  then  laid  her  head  again  upon  her  mistress’s  shouk 
der,  caressing  her  and  sobbing,  was  as  womanly  and  good 
a thing,  in  its  way,  as  ever  was  seen  in  the  world, 

“ There,  there  ! ” said  the  soothing  voice  of  Florence? 
presently,  “ Now  you’re  quite  yourself,  dear  Susan  ! ” 

Miss  Nipper,  sitting  down  upon  the  floor,  at  her  mis 
tress’s  feet,  laughing  and  sobbing,  holding  her  pocket 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes  with  one  hand,  and  patting  Hi, 
ogenes  with  the  other,  as  he  licked  her  face,  confessed 
to  being  more  composed,  and  laughed  and  cried  a little 
more  in  proof  oi  it. 

“ I — I — I never  did  see  such  a creetur  as  that  Toots,” 
said  Susan.  “ in  all  my  born  days,  never  !” 

“ So  kind,”  suggested  Florence. 

“ And  so  comic  ! ” Susan  sobbed.  “The  way  he’s 
been  going  on  inside  with  me,  with  that  disrespectable 
Chicken  on  the  box  ! ” 

“ About  what,  Susan  ?”  inquired  Florence,  timidly. 
Oh  about  Lieutenant  Walters,  and  Captain  Gills^ 


494 


WOiiKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


and  you,  rny  dear  Miss  Floy,  and  tlie  silent  tomb,”  said 
Susan. 

Tlie  silent  tomb  ! ” repeated  Florence. 

‘‘He  says,”  here  Susan  burst  into  a violent  hysterical 
laugh,  “ that  he’ll  go  down  into  it  now,  immediately  and 
quite  comfortable,  but  bless  your  heart  my  dear  Miss 
Floy,  he  won’t,  he’s  a great  deal  too  happy  in  seeing  other 
people  happy  for  that,  he  may  not  be  a Solomon,”  pur- 
sued the  Nipper,  with  her  usual  volubility,  “ nor  do  I 
say  he  is,  but  this  I do  say,  a less  selfish  human  creetur 
human  nature  never  knew  I ” 

Miss  Nipper  being  ^till  hysterical,  laughed  immod©;^''- 
ately  after  making  this  energetic  declaration,  and  then 
informed  Florence  that  he  was  waiting  below  to  see  her; 
which  would  be  a rich  repayment  for  the  trouble  he  had 
ha,d  in  his  late  expedition. 

Florence  entreated  Susan  to  beg  of  Mr.  Toots  as  a fa- 
vour that  she  might  have  the  pleasure  of  thanking  him 
for  his  kindness  ; and  Susan,  in  a few  moments,  pro- 
duced that  young , gentleman,  still  very  much  dishev 
elled  in  appearance,  and  stammering  exceedingly. 

“Miss  Dombey,”  said  Mr.  Toots.  “To  be  again  per- 
mitted to—to — gaze — at  least,  not  to  gaze,  but — I don’t 
exactly  know  what  I was  going  to  say,  but  it’s  of  no  con- 
sequence. ” 

“ I have  to  thank  you  so  often,”  returned  Florence, 
giving  him  both  her  hands,  wdth  all  her  innocent  grati- 
tude beaming  in  her  face,  “ that  I have  mo  words  left, 
and  don’t  know  how  to  do  it,” 

“Miss  Dombey,”  said  Mr.  Toots  in  an  awful  voice, 
“ if  it  was  possible  that  you  could,  consistently  with  your 
angelic  nature,  curse  me,  you  would — if  I may  be  al- 
lowed to  say  so — floor  me  infinitely  less,  than  by  these 
undeserved  expressions  of  kindness.  Their  effect  upon 
me — is — but,”  said  Mr.  Toots  abruptly,  “ this  is  a digres- 
sion, and’s  of  no  consequence  at  all.” 

As  there  seemed  to  be  no  means  of  replying  to  this, 
but  by  thanking  him  again,  Florence  thanked  him  again. 

“ I could  wish,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  “ to  take  this  oppor- 
tunity, Miss  Dombey,  if  I might,  of  entering  into  a word 
of  explanation.  I should  have  had  the  pleasure  of — of 
returning  with  Susan  at  an  earlier  period  ; but,  in  the 
first  place,  we  didn’t  know  the  name  of  the  relation  to 
whose  house  she  had  gone,  and,  in  the  second,  as  she 
had  left  that  relation’s  and  gone  to  another  at  a distance, 
I think  that  scarcely  anything  short  of  the  sagacity 
of  the  Chicken,  would  have  found  her  out  in  the  time.” 

Florence  was  sure  of  it. 

“This,  however,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  “ is  not  the  point. 
The  company  of  Susan  has  been,  I assure  you,  Miss 
Dombey,  a consolation  and  satisfaction  to  me,  in  my 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


495 


state  of  mind,  more  easily  conceived,  than  described. 
The  journey  has  been  its  own  reward.  That,  how. 
ever,  still,  is  not  the  point.  Miss  Dombey,  I have  before 
observed  that  I know  I am  not  what  is  considered  a quick 
person.  I am  perfectly  aware  of  that.  I don’t  think 
anybody  could  be  better  acquainted  with  his  own — if 
it  was  not  too  strong  an  expression,  I should  say  with 
the  thickness  of  his  own — head  than  myself.  But, 
Miss  Dombey,  I do,  notwithstanding,  perceive  the  state 
of — of  things — with  Lieutenant  Walters.  Whatever 
agony  tha,t  state  of  things  may  have  caused  me  (which 
is  of  no  consequence  at  all),  I am  bound  to  say,  that 
Lieutenant  Walters  is  a person  who  appears  to  be 
worthy  of  the  blessing  that  has  fallen  on  his — on  his 
brow.  May  he  wear  it  long,  and  appreciate  it,  as  a 
very  different,  and  very  unworthy  individual,  that  it  is  of 
no  consequence  to  name  would  have  done  ! That,  hovf. 
ever,  still,  is  not  the  point.  Miss  Dombey,  Captain 
Gills  is  a friend  of  mine  ; and  during  the  interval  that 
is  now  elapsing,  I believe  it  would  afford  Captain  Gills 
pleasure  to  see  me  occasionally  coming  backwards  and 
forwards  here.  It  would  afford  me  pleasure  so  to  come. 
But  I cannot  forget  that  I once  committed  myself,  fa- 
tally, at  the  corner  of  the  Square  at  Brighton  ; and  if 
my  presence  will  be,  in  the  least  degree,  unpleasant 
to  you,  I only  ask  you  to  name  it  to  me  now,  and 
assure  you  that  I shall  perfectly  understand  you.  I 
shall  not  consider  it  at  all  unkind,  and  shall  only  be 
too  delighted  and  happy  to  be  honoured  with  your 
confidence  ! ” 

Mr.  Toots,”  returned  Florence,  ‘Mf  you,  who  are  so 
old  and  true  a friend  of  mine,  were  to  stay  away  from 
this  house  now,  you  would  make  me  very  unhappy.  It 
can  never,  never,  give  me  any  feeling  but  pleasure  to 
see  you.” 

‘‘Miss  Domibey,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  taking  out  his 
pocket-handkerchief,  “if  I shed  a tear,  it  is  a tear  of 
joy.  It  is  of  no  consequence,  and  I am  very  much 
obliged  to  you.  I may  be  allowed  to  remark,  after  what 
you  have  so  kindly  said,  that  it  is  not  my  intention  to 
neglect  my  person  any  longer.” 

Florence  received  thi^  intimation  with  the  prettiest 
expression  of  perplexity  possible. 

“ I mean,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  “ that  I shall  consider  it 
my  duty  as  a fellow-creature  generally,  until  I am 
claimed  by  the  silent  tomb,  to  make  the  best  of  myself, 
and  to — to  have  my  boots  as  brightly  polished,  as— as 
circumstances  will  admit  of.  This  is  the  last  time.  Miss 
Dombey,  of  my  intruding  any  observation  of  a private 
and  personal  nature.  I thank  you  very  much  indeed. 
If  I am  not,,  in  a general  ways  as  sensible  as  my  friends 


496 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


could  wish  me  to  be,  or  as  I could  wish  myself,  I really 
am,  upon  my  word  and  honour,  particularly  sensible  of 
what  is  considerate  and  kind.  I feel,"’  said  Mr.  Toots, 
in  an  impassioned  tone,  as  if  I could  express  my  feel- 
ings, at  the  present  moment,  in  a most  remarkable  man- 
ner, if — if — I could  only  get  a start.'’’ 

Appearing  not  to  get  it,  after  waiting  a minute  or  two 
to  see  if  it  would  come,  Mr.  Toots  took  a hasty  leave, 
and  went  below  to  seek  the  captain,  whom  he  found  in 
the  shop. 

Captain  Gills,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  ''what  is  now  to 
take  place  between  us,  takes  place  under  the  sacred  seal 
of  confidence.  It  is  the  sequel.  Captain  Gills,  of  what 
has  taken  place  between  myself  and  Miss  Dombey,  up- 
stairs. ” 

“ Alow  and  aloft,  eh,  my  lad  ? ” murmured  the  cap- 
tain, 

" Exactl}"  so.  Captain  Gills,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  whose 
fervour  of  acquiescence  was  greatly  heightened  by  hi^ 
entire  ignorance  of  the  captain’s  meaning.  " Miss  Dom- 
bey, I believe,  Captain  Gills,  is  to  be  shortly  united  to 
Lieutenant  Walters  ? ” 

" Why,  ay,  my  lad.  We’re  all  shipmets  here, — Wal’r 
and  sweetheart  will  be  jined  together  in  the  house  of 
bondage,  as  soon  as  the  askings  is  over,”  whispered 
Captain  Cuttle,-  in  his  ear. 

" The  askings.  Captain  Gills  ! ” repeated  Mr.  Toots. 

" In  the  church,  down  yonder,”  said  the  captain, 
pointing  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder. 

" Oh  ! Yes  ! ” returned  Mr.  Toots. 

" And  then,”  said  the  captain,  in  his  hoarse  whisper, 
and  tapping  Mr.  Toots  on  the  chest  with  the  back  of  his 
hand,  and  falling  from  him  with  a look  of  infinite  ad- 
miration, " what  toilers  ? That  there  pretty  creetur,  as 
delicately  brought  up  as  a foreign  bird,  goes  away  upon 
the  roaring  main  with  Wal’r  on  a v/oyagelo  China.” 

" Lord,  Captain  Gills  ! ” said  Mr.  Toots. 

"Ay  I ” nodded  the  captain.  " The  ship  as  took  him 
up,  when  he  was  wrecked  in  the  hurricane  that  had 
drove  her  clean  out  of  her  course,  was  a China  trader,, 
and  Wal’r  made  the  woyage,  and  got  into  favour,  aboard 
and  ashore — being  as  smart  and  good  a lad  as  ever 
stepped — and  so,  the  supercargo  dying  at  Canton,  he  got 
made  (having  acted  as  clerk  afore),  and  now  he’s  super- 
cargo aboard  another  ship,  same  owners.  And  so,  you 
see,”  repeated  the  captain,  thoughtfully,  "the  pretty 
creetur  goes  away  upon  the  roaring  main  with  Wal’r,  on 
a woyage  to  China.” 

Mr.  Toots  and  Captain  Cuttle  heaved  a sigh  in  concert. 

"What  then?”  said  the  captain.  "She  loves  him 
true.  He  loves  her,  true.  Them  as  should  have  loved 


BOMBEY  AND  SON. 


497 


and  fended  of  lier,  treated  of  her  like  the  beasts  as  per- 
ish. When  she,  cast  out  of  home,  come  here  to  me,  and 
dropped  upon  them  planks,  her  wownded  heart  wag 
broke.  I knov/  it.  I,  Ed’ard  Cuttle,  see  it.  There’s 
nowt  but  true,  kind,  steady  love,  as  can  ever  piece  it  up 
again.  If  so  be  I didn’t  know  that,  and  didn’t  know  as 
Wal’r  was  her  true  love,  brother,  and  she  is,  I’d  have 
these  here  blue  arms  and  legs  chopped  off,  afore  I’d  let 
her  go.  But  I do  know  it,  and  what  then  ? Why,  then, 
I say,  Heaven  go  with  ’em  both,  and  so  it  will  ! Amen  !’^ 

“Captain  Gills,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  “let  me  have  the 
pleasure  of  shaking  hands.  You’ve  a way  of  saying 
things,  that  gives  me  an  agreeable  warmth,  all  up  my 
back.  J say  Amen.  You  are  aware.  Captain  Gills,  that 
I,  too,  have  adored  Miss  Dombey.” 

“Cheer  up  I ” said  the  captain,  laying  his  hand  on 
Mr.  Toots’s  shoulder.  “ Stand  by,  boy  ! ” 

“ It  is  my  intention,  Captain  Gills,”  returned  the  spir- 
ited Mr.  Toots,  “ to  cheer  up.  Also  to  stand  by,  as 
much  as  possible.  When  the  silent  tomb  shall  yawn, 
Captain  Gills,  I shall  be  ready  for  burial  ; not  before. 
But  not  being  certain,  just  at  present,  of  my  power  over 
myself,  what  I wish  to  s^  to  you,  and  what  I shall  take 
tt  as  a particular  favour  if  you  will  mention  to  Lieuten- 
ant Walters,  is  as  follows.” 

“ Is  as  follers,”  echoed  the  captain.  “ Steady  I” 

“ Miss  Dombey  being  so  inexpressibly  kind,”  continued 
Mr.  Toots  with  w'atery  eyes,  “as  to  say  that  my  pres- 
ence is  the  reverse  of  disagreeable  to  her,  and  you  and 
everybody  here  being  no  less  forbearing  and  tolerant  to- 
wards  one  who — who  certainly,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  with 
momentary  dejection,  “ would  appear  to  have  been  born 
by  mistake,  I shall  come  backwards  and  forwards  of  an 
evening,  during  the  short  time  we  can  all  be  together. 
But  what  I ask  is  this.  If,  at  any  moment,  I find  that  I 
cannot  endure  the  contemplation  of  Lieutenant  Walters’s 
bliss,  and  should  rush  out,  I hope,  Captain  Gills,  that 
you  and  he  will  both  consider  it  as  my  misfortune  and 
not  my  fault,  or  the  want  of  inward  conflict.  That 
you’ll  feel  convinced  I bear  no  malice  to  any  living 
creature — least  of  all  to  Lieutenant  Walters  himself— 
and  that  you’ll  casually  remark  that  I have  gone  out  for 
a walk,  or  probably  to  see  what  o’clock  it  is  by  the  Roy- 
al Exchange.  Captain  Gills,  if  you  could  enter  into  this 
arrangement,  and  could  answer  for  Lieutenant  Walters, 
it  would  be  a relief  to  my  feelings  that  I should  think 
cheap  at  the  sacrifice  of  a considerable  portion  of  my 
property.” 

“ My  lad,”  returned  the  captain,  “ say  no  more.  There 
ain’t  a colour  you  can  run  up,  as  won’t  be  made  out,  and 
answered  to,  by  Wal’r  and  self,” 


498 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Captain  Gills/*  said  Mr.  Toots,  my  mind  3s  greatly 
relieved.  I wish  to  preserve  the  good  opinion  of  all 
here.  I — 1-— mean  well,  upon  my  honour,  however  badly 
I may  show  it.  You  know,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  it*s  ex- 
actly as  if  Burgess  and  Co.  wished  to  oblige  a customer 
with  a most  extraordinary  pair  of  trousers,  and  could  not 
cut  out  what  they  had  in  their  minds.” 

With  this  apposite  illustration,  of  which  he  seemed  a 
little  proud,  Mr.  Toots  gave  Captain  Cuttle  his  blessing 
and  departed. 

The  honest  captain,  with  his  Heart’s  Delight  in  the 
house,  and  Susan  tending  her,  was  a beaming  and  a 
happy  man.  As  the  days  flew  by,  he  grew  more  beam- 
ing and  more  happy,  every,  day.  After  some  conferences 
with  Susan  (for  whose  wisdom  the  captain  had  a pro- 
found respect,  and  whose  valiant  precipitation  of  herself 
bn  Mrs.  MacStinger  he  could  never  forget),  he  proposed 
to  Florence  that  the  daughter  of  the  elderly  lady  who 
usually  sat  under  the  blue  umbrella  in  Leadenhall  Mar- 
ket, should,  for  prudential  reasons  and  considerations  of 
privacy,  be  superseded  in  the  temporary  discharge  of 
the  household  duties,  by  some  one  who  was  not  unknown 
to  them,  and  in  whom  they  could  safely  confide.  Susan, 
being  present,  then  named,  in  furtherance  of  a sugges- 
tion she  had  previously  offered  to  the  captain,  Mrs.  Rich- 
ards. Florence  brightened  at  the  name.  And  Susan, 
setting  ofl  that  very  afternoon  to  the  Toodle  domicile,  to 
sound  Mrs.  Richards,  returned  in  triumph  the  same 
evening,  accompanied  by  the  identical  rosy-cheeked, 
apple- faced  Polly,  whose  demonstrations,  when  brought 
into  Florence’s  presence',  were  hardly  less  affectionate 
than  those  of  Susan  Nipper  herself. 

This  piece  of  generalship  accomplished  ; from  which 
the  captain  derived  uncommon  satisfaction,  as  he  did, 
indeed,  from  everything  else  that  was  done,  whatever 
it  happened  to  be  ; Florence  had  next  to  prepare  Susan 
for  their  approaching  separation.  This  was  a much 
more  difficult  task,  as  Miss  Nipper  was  of  a resolute  dis- 
position, and  had  fully  made  up  her  mind  that  she  had 
come  back  never  to  be  parted  from  her  old  mistress  any 
more. 

“^s  to  wages  dear  Miss  Floy,”  she  said,  "‘you 
wouldn’t  hint  and  wrong  me  so  as  to  think  of  naming 
them,  for  I’ve  put  money  by  and  wouldn’t  sell  my  love 
and  duty  at  a time  like  this  even  if  the  Savings’  Banks 
and  me  were  total  strangers  or  the  Banks  were  broke  to 
pieces,  but  you’ve  never  been  without  me  darling  from 
the  time  your  poor  dear  ma  was  took  away,  and  thougih 
I’m  nothing  to  be  boasted  of,  you’re  used  to  me  and  oh  my 
own  dear  mistress  through  so  many  years  don’t  think  of 
going  anywhere  without  me,  for  it  mustn’t  and  it  can’t 
bel” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


499 


Dear  Susan,  I am  going  on  a long,  long  voyage/’ 

**  Weil  Miss  Floy,  and  what  of  that  ? the  more  you’ll 
want  me.  Length  of  voyages  ain’t  an  object  in  my 
eyes,  thank  God  ! ” said  the  impetuous  Susan  Nipper, 

“ But  Susan,  I am  going  with  Walter,  and  I would  go 
with  Walter  anywhere— everywhere  ! Walter  is  poor, 
and  I am  very  poor,  and  I must  learn,  now,  both  to  help 
myself,  and  help  him.” 

‘‘Dear  Miss  Floy?”  cried  Susan,  bursting  out  afresh, 
and  shaking  her  head  violently,  “ it’s  nothing  new  to 
you  to  help  yourself  and  others  too  and  be  the  patientest 
and  truest  of  noble  hearts,  but  let  me  talk  to  Mr.  Walter 
Gay  and  settle  it  with  him,  for  suffer  you  to  go  away 
across  the  world  alone  I cannot,  and  I won’t.” 

/Alone,  Susan?”  returned  Florence.  “Alone?  and 
Walter  taking  me  with  him!”  Ah,  what  a bright, 
amazed,  enraptured  smile  was  on  her  face  ! — He  should 
have  se'='n  it.  “I  am  sure  you  will  not  speak  to  Walter 
if  1 ask  you  not,”  she  added  tenderly  : “ and  pray  don’t, 
dear.  ” 

Susan  sobbed  “Why  not.  Miss  Floy?” 

“Because,”  said  Florence,  “I  am  going  to  be  his 
wife,  to  give  him  up  my  whole  heart,  and  to  live  with 
him  and  dio  with  him.  He  might  think,  if  you  said  to 
him  what  you  have  said  to  me,  that  I am  afraid  of  what 
is  before  me,  or  that  you  have  some  cause  to  be  afraid 
for  me.  Why,  Susan,  dear,  I love  him.  ! ” 

Miss  Nipper  was  so  much  affected  by  the  quiet  fervour 
of  these  words,  and  the  simiple,  heartfelt,  all-pervading 
earnestness  expressed  in  them,  and  miaking  the  speaker’s 
face  more  beautiful  and  pure  than  ever,  that  she  could 
only  cling  to  her  again,  crying  Was  her  little  mistress 
really,  really  going  to  be  married,  and  pitying,  caressing, 
and  protecting  her,  as  she  had  done  before. 

But  the  Nipper,  though  susceptible  of  womanly  weak' 
nesses,  was  almost  as  capable  of  putting  constraint 
upon  herself  as  of  attacking  the  redoubtable  MacSting 
er.  From  that  time,  she  never  returned  to  the  subject, 
but  w^as  always  cheerful,  active,  bustling,  and  hopefuh 
She  did,  indeed,  inform  Mr.  Toots  privately,  that  she 
was  only  “keeping  up”  for  the  time,  and  that  when  it 
was  all  over,  and  Miss  Dombey  was  gone,  she  might  be 
expected  to  become  a spectacle  distressful  ; and  Mr. 
Toots  did  also  express  that  it  was  his  case  too,  and  that 
they  would  mingle  their  tears  together  ; but  she  never 
otherwise  indulged  her  private  feelings  in  the  presence 
of  Florence  or  within  the  precincts  of  the  Midshipman. 

Limited  and  plain  as  Florence’s  wardrobe  was — w'hat 
a contrast  to  that  prepared  for  the  last  marriage  in 
which  she  had  taken  part ! — there  was  a good  deal  to  do 
in  getting  it  ready,  and  Susan  Nipper  worked  away  at 


500 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


her  side,  all  day,  with  the  concentrated  zeal  of  fifty 
sempstresses.  The  wonderful  contributions  Captain 
Cuttle  would  have  made  to  this  branch  of  the  outfit  if 
he  had  been  permitted— as  pink  parasols,  tinted  silk 
stockings,  blue  shoes,  and  other  articles  no  less  neces- 
sary Dn  shipboard — %vouid  occupy  some  space  in  the  re- 
cital. He  was  induced,  however,  by  various  fraudulent 
representations  to  limit  his  contributions  to  a work-box 
and  dressing-case,  of  each  of  which  he  purchased  the 
very  largest  specimen  that  could  be  got  for  money.  For 
ten  days  or  a.  fortnight  afterwards,  he  generally  sat, 
during  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  gazing  at  these 
boxes  ; divided  between  extreme  admiration  of  them,  and 
dejected  misgivings  that  they  were  not  gorgeous  enough, 
and  frequently  diving  out  into  the  street  to  purchase 
some  wild  article  that  he  deemed  necessary  to  their  com- 
pleteness. But  his  master  stroke  was,  the  bearing  of 
them  both  off,  suddenly,  one  morning,  and  getting  the 
two  words  Florence  Cay  engraved  upon  a brass  heart 
inlaid  over  the  lid  of  each.  After  this,  he  smoked  four 
pipes  successively  in  the  little  parlour  by  himself,  and 
was  discovered  chuckling,  at  the  expiration  of  as  many 
hours. 

Walter  was  busy  and  away  all  day,  but  came  there 
every  morning  early  to  see  Florence,  and  always  passed 
the  evening  with  her.  Florence  never  left  her  high 
rooms  but  to  steal  down -stairs  to  wait  for  kim  when  it 
was  his  time  to  come,  or,  sheltered  by  his  proud,  encir- 
cling arm,  to  bear  him  company  to  the  door  again,  and 
sometimes  peep  into  the  street.  In  the  twilight  they 
were  always  together.  Oh  blessed  time  ! Oh  wander^ 
ing  heart  at  rest  I Oh  deep,  exhaustless  mighty  well  ol 
love,  in  which  so  much  was  sunk  I 

The  cruel  mark  was  on  her  bosom  yet.  It  rose  against 
her  father  with  the  breath  she  drew,  it  lay  between  her 
and  her  lover  when  he  pressed  her  to  his  heart.  But 
she  forgot  it.  In  the  beating  of  that  heart  for  her,  and 
in  the  beating  of  her  own  for  him,  all  harsher  music  was 
unheard,  all  stern  unloving  hearts  forgotten.  Fragile 
and  delicate  she  was,  but  with  a might  of  love  within 
her  that  could,  and  did,  create  a world  to  fly  to,  and  to 
rest  in,  out  of  his  own  image. 

How  often  did  the  great  house  and  the  old  days,  come 
“before  her  in  the  twilight  time,  when  she  was  sheltered 
by  the  arm  so  proud,  so  fond,  and,  creeping  closer  to 
him,  shrunk  within  it  at  the  recollection  ! How  often, 
from  remembering  the  night  when  she  went  down  to 
that  room  and  met  the  never  to  be  forgotten  look,  did 
she  raise  her  eyes  to  those  that  watched  her  with  such 
loving  earnestness,  and  weep  with  happiness  in  such  a 
refuge  I The  more  she  clung  to  it,  the  more  the  dear 


AFTER  THIS,  HE  SMOKED  FOUR  PIPES  SUCCESSIVELY  IN  THE 
LITTLE  PARLOUR  BY  HIMSELF. 

—Dombey  and  Son,  Vol.  Twelve,  page  501. 


503 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


dead  child  was  in  her  thoughts  : hut  as  if  the  last  time 
she  had  seen  her  father,  had  been  when  he  was  sleeping 
and  she  kissed  his  face,  she  always  left  him  s(^  and 
never,  in  her  fancy,  passed  that  hour. 

“Walter,  dear,’'  said  Florence,  one  evening,  when  it 
was  almost  dark.  “Do  you  know  v/hat  I have  been 
thinking  to-day?” 

“ Thinking  how  the  time  is  flying  on,  and  how  soon 
we  shall  be  upon  the  sea,  sweet  Florence?  ” 

“I  don’t  mean  that,  Walter,  though  I think  of  that 
too.  I have  been  thinking  what  a charge  I a;m  to  you.” 

“ A precious,  sacred  charge,  dear  heart  ! Why  J 
think  that  sometimes.” 

“You  are  laughing,  Walter.  I know  that’s  much 
more  in  your  thoughts  than  mine.  But  I mean  a cost.” 

“ A cost,  my  own  ? ” 

“ In  money,  dear.  All  these  preparations  that  Susan 
and  I are  so  busy  with — I have  been  able  to  purchase 
very  little  for  myself.  You  were  poor  before.  Buthov^ 
much  poorer  I shall  make  you,  Walter  !” 

“ And  how  much  richer,  Florence?” 

Florence  laughed,  and  shook  her  head, 

“ Besides,”  said  Walter,  “ long  ago — before  I went  to 
^©a — I had  a little  purse  presented  to  me,  dearest,  which 
had  money  in  it.” 

“ Ah  ! ” returned  Florence  laughing  sorrowfully,  “very 
little  ! Very  little,  Walter  ! But  you  must  not  think,” 
and  here  she  laid  her  light  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and 
looked  into  his  face,  “ that  I regret  to  be  this  burden  on 
you.  No,  dear  love,  I am  glad  of  it.  I am  happy  in  it. 
I wouldn’t  have  it  otherwise  for  all  the  world  ! ” 

“ Nor  I,  indeed,  dear  Florence.” 

“Ay  ! But  Walter,  you  can  never  feel  it  as  Ido.  I 
am  so  proud  of  you  ! It  makes  my  heart  swell  with 
such  delight  to  know  that  those  who  speak  of  you  must 
say  you  married  a poor  disowned  girl,  who  had  taken 
shelter  here  ; who  had  no  other  home,  no  other  friends  ; 
who  had  nothing-nothing  ! Oh  Walter,  if  I could 
feave  brought  you  millions,  I never  could  have  been  so 
happy  for  your  sake,  as  I am  ! ” _ 

“ And  you,  dear  Florence  ? are  you  nothing  ? ” he  re- 
turned. 

“ No,  nothing,  Walter.  Nothing  but  your  wife.  ” The 
light  hand  stole  about  his  neck,  and  the  voice  came 
nearer — nearer.  “ I am  nothing  any  more,  that  is  not 
you.  I have  no  earthly  hope  any  more,  that  is  not  you. 
I have  nothing  dear  to  me  any  more,  that  is  not  you.” 

Oh  I well  might  Mr.  Toots  leave  the  little  com]  any 
that  evening,  and  twice  go  out  to  correct  his  watcl,'  by 
the  Royal  Exchange,  and  once  to  keep  an  appointiAent 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


603 


with  a banker  which  he  suddenly  remembered,  and  once 
to  take  a little  turn  to  Ald^ate  Pump  and  back  I 

But  before  he  went  upon  these  expeditions,  or  indeed 
before  he  came,  and  before  lights  were  brought,  Walter 
said  : 

Florence  love,  the  lading  of  our  ship  is  nearly  fin- 
ished, and  probably  on  the  very  day  of  our  marriage  she 
will  drop  dov/n  the  river.  Shall  we  go  away  that 
morning,  and  stay  in  Kent  until  we  go  on  board  at 
Gravesend  within  a week  ? ** 

If  you  please,  Walter.  I shall  be  happy  anywhere. 
But— 

‘‘ Tes,  my  life?” 

‘ “You  know,”  said  Florence,  ‘Hhat  we  shall  have  no 
marriage  party,  and  that  nobody  will  distinguish  as 
our  dress  from  other  people.  As  we  leave  the  same  day, 
will  you — will  you  take  me  somewhere  that  morning 
Walter — early — before  we  go  to  church  ?” 

Walter  seemed  to  understand  her,  as  so  true  a lover 
so  truly  loved  should,  and  confirmed  his  ready  promise 
with  a kiss — with  more  than  one  perhaps,  or  two  or  three, 
or  five  or  six  ; and  in  the  grave,  calm,  peaceful  evening, 
Florence  was  very  happy. 

Then  into  the  quiet  room  came  Susan  Nipper  and  th® 
candles  ; shortly  afterwards,  the  tea,  the  captain,  and 
the  excursive  Mr.  Toots,  who,  as  above  mentioned,  was 
frequently  on  the  move  afterwards,  and  passed  but  a 
restless  evening.  This,  however,  was  not  his  habit : for 
he  generally  got  on  very  well,  by  dint  of  playing  at 
cribbage  with  the  captain  under  the  advice  and  guidance 
of  Miss  Nipper,  and  distracting  his  mind  with  the  calcu- 
lations incidental  to  the  game  ; which  he  found  to  be  a 
very  effectual  means  of  utterly  confounding  himself. 

The  captain’s  visage  on  these  occasions  presented  one 
of  the  finest  examples  of  combination  and  succession  of 
expression  ever  observed.  His  instinctive  delicacy  and 
his  chivalrous  feeling  towards  Florence,  taught  him  that 
it  was  not  a time  for  any  boisterous  jollity,  or  violent 
display  of  satisfaction.  Certain  floating  reminiscences 
of  Lovely  Peg,  on  the  other  hand,  were  constantly  strug» 
gling  for  a vent,  and  urging  the  captain  to  commit  him- 
self by  some  irreparable  demonstration.  Anon,  his  ad- 
miration of  Florence  and  Walter— well-matched  truly, 
and  full  of  grace  and  interest  in  their  youth,  and  love, 
and  good  looks,  as  they  sat  apart — would  take  such  com- 
plete possession  of  him,  that  he  would  lay  down  his  cards, 
and  beam  upon  them,  dabbing  his  head  all  over  with 
his  pocket-handkerchief  ; until  warned,  perhaps,  by  the 
sudden  rushing  forth  of  Mr.  Toots,  that  he  had  uncon- 
sciously been  very  instrumental  indeed,  in  making  that 
gentleman  miserable.  This  reflection  would  make  the 


504 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


captain  profoundly  melanclioly,  until  tlie  return  of  Mr. 
Toots  ; when  he  would  fall  to  his  cards  again,  with 
many  side  winks  and  nods,  and  polite  waves  of  his  hook 
at  Miss  Nipper,  importing  that  he  wasn’t  going  to  do  so 
any  more.  The  state  that  ensued  on  this,  was,  perhaps, 
his  best  ; for  then,  endeavouring  to  discharge  all  expres- 
sion from  his  face,  he  would  sit  staring  round  the  room, 
with  all  these  expressions  conveyed  into  it  at  once,  and 
each  wrestling  with  the  other.  Delighted  admiration  of 
Florence  and  Walter  always  overthrew  the  rest,  and 
remained  victorious  and  undisguised,  unless  Mr.  Toots 
made  another  rush  into  the  air,  and  then  the  captain 
would  sit,  like  ^ remorseful  culprit,  until  he  came  back 
again,  occasionally  calling  upon  himself, in  a low  reproach- 
ful voice,  to  Stand  by  ! ” or  growling  some  remon- 
strance to  ‘‘  Ed’ard  Cuttle  my  lad,’^  on  the  want  of  cau- 
tion observable  in  his  behaviour. 

One  of  Mr.  Toots’s  hardest  trials,  however,  was  of  his 
own  seeking.  On  the  approach  of  the  Sunday  which  was 
to  witness  the  last  of  those  askings  in  church  of  which  the 
captain  had  spoken,  Mr.  Toots  thus  stated  his  feelings 
to  Susan  Nipper. 

Susan,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  am  drawn  towards  the 
building.  The  words  which  cut  me  off  from  Miss  Dombey 
for  ever,  will  strike  upon  my  ears  like  a knell  you  know, 
but  upon  my  word  and  honour,  I feel  that  I must  hear 
them.  Therefore,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  “ will  you  accom- 
pany me  to-morrow,  to  the  sacred  edifice  ? ” 

Miss  Nipper  expressed  her  readiness  to  do  so,  if  that 
would  be  any  satisfaction  to  Mr.  Toots,  but  besought 
him  to  abandon  his  idea  of  going. 

Susan,”  returned  Mr.  Toots,  with  much  solemnity, 
''before  my  whiskers  began  to  be  observed  by  any- 
body but  myself,  I adored  Miss  Dombey.  While  yet 
a victim  to  the  thraldom  of  Blimber,  I adored  Miss 
Dombey.  When  I could  no  longer  be  kept  out  of  my 
property,  in  a legal  point  of  view,  and — and  accordingly 
came  into  it — I adored  Miss  Dombey.  The  banns  which 
consign  her  to  Lieutenant  Walters,  and  me  to— to  Gloom 
you  know,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  after  hesitating  for  a strong 
expression,  " may  be  dreadful,  will  be  dreadful  ; but  I 
feel  that  I should  wish  to  hear  them  spoken.  I feel 
that  I should  wish  to  know,  that  the  ground  was  certain^ 
ly  cut  from  under  me,  and  that  I hadn’t  a hope  to  cher 
ish.  or  a— or  a leg,  in  short,  to — to  go  upon.” 

Busan  Nipper  could  only  commiserate  Mr.  Toots’s  un- 
fortunate condition,  and  agree,  under  these  circumstances, 
to  accompany  him  ; which  she  did  next  morning. 

The  church  Walter  had  chosen  for  the  purpose,  v/as  a 
mouldy  old  church  in  a yard,  hemmed  in  by  a labyrinth 
of  back  streets  aiid  courts,  with  a little  burying-ground 


DOMBEY  SON. 


505 


roui)d  it,  and  itself  buried  in  a kind  of  vault  formed 
by  the  neighbouring  houses,  and  paved  with  echoing 
stones.  It  was  a great  dim,  shabby  pile,  with  high  old 
oaken  pews,  among  which  about  a score  of  people  lost 
themselves  every  Sunday  ; while  the  clergyman's  voice 
drovrsily  resounded  through  the  emptiness,  and  the 
organ  rumbled  and  rolled  as  if  the  church  had  got  the 
colic,  for  want  of  a congregation  to  ke^p  the  wind  and 
damp  out.  But  so  far  was  this  City  ceurch  from  lan- 
guishing for  the  company  of  other  churches,  that  spires 
were  clustered  round  it,  as  the  masts  of  shipping  clus- 
ter on  the  river.  It  v/ould  have  been  hard  to  count  them 
from  its  steeple-top,  they  were  so  many.  In  almost  every 
yard  and  blind-place  near,  there  was  a church.  The 
confusion  of  bells  when  Susan  and  Mr.  Toots  betook 
themselves  towards  it  on  the  Sunday  morning,  was  deaf- 
ening. There  were  twenty  churches  close  together, 
clamouring  for  people  to  come  in. 

The  two  stray  sheep  in  question  were  penned  by  a 
beadle  in  a commodious  pew,  and,  being  early,  sat  for 
some  time  counting  the  congregation,  listening  to  the 
disappointed  bell  high  up  in  the  tower,  or  looking  at  a 
shabby  little  old  man  in  the  porch  behind  the  screen,  who 
was  ringing  the  same,  like  the  hull  in  Cock  Robin, 
with  his  foot  in  the  stirrup.  Mr.  Toots,  after  a length- 
ened survey  of  the  large  books  on  the  reading-desk, 
whispered  Miss  Nipper  that  he  wondered  where  the 
banns  vv^ere  kept,  but  that  young  lady  merely  shook  her 
head  and  frowned  ; repelling  for  the  time  all  approaches 
of  a temporal  nature. 

Mr.  Toots,  however,  appearing  unable  to  keep  his 
thoughts  from  the  banns,  was  evidently  looking  out  for 
them  during  the  whole  preliminary  portion  of  the  ser- 
^ce.  As  the  time  for  reading  them  approached,  the 
poor  young  gentleman  manifested  great  anxiety  and 
trepidation,  which  vras  not  diminished  by  the  unexpect- 
M apparition  of  the  captain  in  the  front  row  of  the 
gallery.  When  the  clerk  handed  up  a list  to  the  clergy^ 
man,  Mr.  Toots  being  then  seated,  held  on  by  the  seat 
of  the  pew ; but  when  the  names  of  Walter  Gay  and 
Florence  Doinbe's  were  read  aloud  as  being  in  the  third 
and  last  stage  of  that  association,  he  was  so  entirely  con- 
quered  by  his  feelings  as  to  rush  from  the  church  with- 
out his  hat,  followed  by  the  beadle  and  pew-opener  and 
two  gentlemen  of  the  medical  profession,  who  happened 
to  be  present ; of  whom  the  first-named  presently  re- 
turned for  that  article,  informing  Miss  Nipper  in  a 
v/hisper  that  she  was  not  to  make  herself  uneasy  about 
the  gentleman,  as  the  gentleman  said  his  indisposition 
was  of  no  consequence. 

Miss  Nipper  feeling  that  the  eyes  of  that  integral  por- 
Yol.  12  —V 


506 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tion  of  Europe  whicli  lost  itself  weekly  among  the  high- 
backed  pews  were  upon  her,  would  have  been  sufficiently 
embarrassed  by  this  incident,  though  it  had  terminated 
here  ; the  more  so,  as  the  captain  in  the  front  row  of 
the  gallery,  was  in  a state  of  unmitigated  consciousness 
which  could  hardly  fail  to  express  to  the  congregation 
that  he  had  some  mysterious  connexion  with  it.  But  the 
extreme  restlessness  of  Mr.  Toots  painfully  increased 
and  protracted  the  delicacy  of  her  situation.  That  young 
gentleman,  incapable,  in  his  state  of  mind,  of  remaining 
alone  in  the  church-yard,  a prey  to  solitary  meditation, 
and  also  desirous,  no  doubt,  of  testifying  his  respect  for 
the  offices  he  had  in  some  measure  interrupted,  suddenly 
returned — not  coming  back  to  the  pew,  but  stationing 
himself  on  a free-seat  in  the  aisle,  between  two  elderly 
females  who  were  in  the  habit  of  receiving  their  portion 
®f  a weekly  dole  of  bread  then  set  forth  on  a shelf  in 
the  porch.  In  this  conjunction  Mr.  Toots  remained, 
^•reatly  disturbing  the  congregation,  who  felt  it  impossi- 
ble to  avoid  looking  at  him,  until  his  feelings  overcame 
him  again,  when  he  departed  silently  and  suddenly. 
Not  venturing  to  trust  himself  in  the  church  any  more, 
and  yet  wishing  to  have  some  social  participation  in 
what  was  going  on  there,  Mr.  Toots  was,  after  this,  seen 
from  time  to  time,  looking  in,  with  a lorn  aspect,  at  one 
or  other  of  the  windows  ; and  as  there  were  several 
windows  accessible  to  him  from  without,  and  as  his  rest- 
lessness was  very  great,  it  not  only  became  difficult  to 
conceive  at  which  window  he  would  appear  next,  but 
likewise  became  necessary,  as  it  were,  for  the  whole 
congregation  to  speculate  upon  the  chances  of  the  differ- 
ent windows,  during  the  comparative  leisure  afforded 
them  by  the  sermon.  Mr.  Toots’s  movements  in  the 
church-yard  were  so  eccentric,  that  he  seemed  generally 
to  defeat  all  calculation,  and  to  appear,  like  the  conjuror^s 
figure,  where  he  was  least  expected  : and  the  effect  of 
these  mysterious  presentations  was  much  increased  by 
its  being  difficult  to  him  to  see  in,  and  easy  to  everybody 
else  to  see  out : which  occasioned  his  remaining,  every 
time,  longer  than  might  have  been  expected,  with  his 
face  close  to  the  glass,  until  he  all  at  once  became  aware 
that  all  eyes  were  upon  him,  and  vanished. 

These  proceedings  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Toots,  and  the 
strong  individual  consciousness  of  them  that  was  exhib- 
ited by  the  captain,  rendered  Miss  Nipper’s  position  so 
responsible  a one,  that  she  was  mightily  relieved  by  the 
conclusion  of  the  service,  and  was  hardly  so  affable  to 
Mr.  Toots  as  usual,  when  he  informed  her  and  the  cap- 
tain, on  the  way  back,  that  now  he  was  sure  he  had  no 
liope,  you  know,  he  felt  more  comfortable — at  least  not 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


50/ 


exactly  more  comfortable,  but  more  comfortably  an<i 
completely  miserable. 

Swiftly  now,  indeed,  the  time  flew  by,  until  it  was 
the  evening  before  the  day  appointed  for  the  marriage. 
They  were  all  assembled  in  the  upper  room  at  the  Mid- 
shipman’s, and  had  no  fear  of  interruption  ; for  there 
were  no  lodgers  in  the  house  now,  and  the  Midshipman 
had  it  all  to  himself.  They  were  grave  and  quiet  in  the 
prospect  of  to-morrow, but  moderately  cheerful  too.  Flor- 
ence, with  Walter  close  beside  her, was  finishing  a little 
piece  of  work  intended  as  a parting  gift  to  the  captain. 
The  captain  was  playing  cribbage  with  Mr.  Toots,  Mr. 
Toots  was  taking  counsel  as  to  his  hand  of  Susan  Nip- 
per. Miss  Nipper  w^as  giving  it,  with  all  due  secrecy  and 
circumspection.  Diogenes  v/as  iistemng,  and  occasion- 
ally breaking  out  into  a gruff,  half-smothered  fragment 
of  a bark,  of  which  he  afterwards  seemed  half-ashamed, 
as  if  lie  doubted  having  any  reason  for  it. 

Steady,  steady!”  said  the  captain  to  Diogenes, 

v/hat’s  amiss  with  you?  You  don’t  seem  easy  in  your 
mind  to-night,  my  boy  1 ” 

Diogenes  wagged  his  tail,  but  pricked  up  his  ears  im^ 
mediately  afterwards,  and  gave  utterance  to  another 
fragment  of  a bark  ; for  which  he  apologised  to  the  cap- 
tain, by  again  wagging  his  tail. 

‘^It’s  my  opinion,  Di,”  said  the  captain,  looking 
thoughtfully  at  his  cards,  and  stroking  his  chin  with  his 
hook,  ‘‘  as  you  have  your  doubts  of  Mrs.  Richards  ; but 
if  you’re  the  animal  I take  you  to  be,  you’ll  think  better 
o’  that ; for  her  looks  is  her  commission.  Now%  bro- 
ther to  Mr.  Toots:  ‘‘if  so  be  as  you’re  ready,  heave 
ahead.” 

The  captain  spoke  with  all  composure  and  attention  to 
the  game,  but  suddenly  his  cards  dropped  out  of  his 
hand,  his  mouth  and  eyes  opened  wide,  his  legs  drew 
themselves  up  and  struck  out  in  front  of  his  chair,  and 
he  sat  staring  at  the  d(or  with  blank  amazement.  Look- 
ing round  upon  the  company,  and  seeing  that  none  of 
them  observed  him  or  the  cause  of  his  astonishment,  the 
captain  recovered  himself  with  a great  gasp,  struck  the 
table  a tremendous  blow*,  cried  in  a stentorian  voice, 
“Sol  Gills  ahoy!”  and  tumbled  into  the  arms  of  a 
weather-beaten  pea-coat  that  had  come  with  Polly  into 
the  room. 

In  another  moment,  Walter  was  in  the  arms  of  the 
weather-beaten  pea-coat.  In  another  moment,  Florence 
was  in  the  arms  of  the  weather-beaten  pea-coat.  In  an. 
other  moment.  Captain  Cuttle  had  embraced  Mrs.  Rich 
ards  and  Miss  Nipper,  and  was  viol  mtly  shaking  hands 
with  Mr.  Toots,  exclaiming  as  he  waved  his  hook  above 
his  head,  “ Hooroar,  my  lad,  hooroar  ! ” To  ivhich  Mr. 


508 


WOKKS  OB’  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Toots,  wholly  at  a loss  to  account  for  these  proceedings, 
replied  with  great  politeness,  Certainly,  Captain  Gills, 
whatever  you  think  proper  I ” 

The  weather-beaten  pea-coat,  and  a no  less  weather, 
beaten  cap  and  comforter  belonging  to  it,  turned  from 
the  captain  and  from  Florence  back  to  Waiter,  anJ 
sounds  came  from  the  weather-beaten  pea-coat,  cap,  and 
comforter,  as  of  an  old  man  sobbing  underneath  them  ; 
while  the  shaggy  sleeves  clasped  Walter  tight.  During 
this  pause,  there  was  an  universal  silence,  and  the  cap- 
tain polished  his  nose  with  great  diligence,  but  when  the 
pea-coat,  cap,  and  comforter  lifted  themselves  up  again, 
Florence  gently  moved  towards  them  ; and  she  and 
Walter  taking  them  off,  disclosed  the  old  Instrument- 
maker,  a little  thinner  and  more  careworn  than  of  old, 
in  his  old  Welsh  wig  and  his  old  coffee- coloured  coat  and 
basket  buttons,  with  his  old  infallible  chroiiometer  tick 
ing  away  in  his  pocket. 

“ Chock  full  o’  science,”  said  the  radiant  captain,  as 
ever  he  was  ! Sed  Gills,  Sol  Gills,  what  have  you  been 
up  to  for  this  many  a long  day,  my  ould  boy  ! ” 

Fm  half  blind  Ned,”  said  the  old  man,  and  almost 
deaf  and  dumb  with  joy.” 

‘‘Hiswery  woice,”  said  the  captain,  looking  round 
with  an  exultation  to  which  even  his  face  could  hardly 
render  justice — his  wery  woice  as  chock  full  o’  science 
as  ever  it  was  1 Sol  Gills,  lay  to,  my  lad,  upon  your 
own  wines  and  fig-trees,  like  a taut  ould  patriarck  as 
you  are, and  overhaul  them  there  adwentures  o’  yourn,in 
your  own  formilior  woice.  ’Tis  the  woice,”  said  the  cap- 
tain, impressively,  and  announcing  a quotation  with  his 
hook,  ‘‘of  the  sluggard,  I heerd  him  com  plain,  you  have 
woke  me  too  soon,  I must  slumber  again.  Scatter  his 
ene-mies,  and  make  ’em  fall ! ” 

The  captain  sat  with  the  air  of  a man  who  had  happi- 
ly expressed  the  feeling  of  everybody  present,  and  im- 
mediately rose  again  to  present  Mr.  Toots,  who  was  much 
disconcerted  by  the  arrival  of  anybody,  appearing  to  pre- 
fer a claim  to  the  name  of  Gills. 

Although,”  stammered  Mr.  Toots,  I had  not  the 
pleasure  of  your  acquaintance,  sir,  before  you  were — you 
Were — ” 

‘'Lost  to  sight,  to  memory  dear,”  suggested  the  cap- 
tain, in  a low  voice. 

"Exactly  so.  Captain  Gills  I ” assented  Mr.  Toots. 

Although  I had  not  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance, 
Mr. — Mr.  Sols,”  said  Toots,  hitting  on  that  name  in  the 
inspiration  of  a bright  idea,  " before  that  happened,  I 
have  the*^  greatest  pleasure,  I assure  you,  in — you  know, 
in  knowing  you.  I hope,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  " that  you’re 
as  well  as  can  be  expected  ” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


{509 


With  these  courteous  words,  Mr.  Toots  sat  down 
bliisliing  and  chuckling. 

The  old  Instrument-maker,  seated  in  a corner  between 
Walter  and  Florence,  and  nodding  at  Polly,  who  was 
looking  on,  all  smiles  and  delight,  answered  the  captain 
thus  : 

Ned  Cuttle,  my  dear  boy,  although  I have  heard 
something  of  the  changes  of  events  here,  from  my  pleas- 
ant friend  there — what  a pleasant  face  she  has  to  be  sure, 
to  welcome  a wanderer  home  ! said  the  old  man  break- 
ing off,  and  rubbing  liia  hands  in  his  old  dreamy  way. 

Hear  him  ! cried  the  captain  gravely.  “ ’Tis  wo- 
man as  seduces  all  mankind.  For  which,''  aside  to  Mr. 
Toots,  you'll  overhaul  your  Adam  and  IGve,  brother." 

I shall  make  a point  of  doing  so.  Captain  Gills," 
said  Mr.  Toots. 

Although  I have  heard  something  of  the  changes  of 
events  from  her,"  resumed  the  Instrument-maker,  tak- 
ing his  old  spectacles  from  his  pocket,  and  putting  them 
on  his  forehead  in  his  old  maimer,  ‘ ^ they  are  so  great 
and  unexpected,  and  I am  so  overpowered  by  the  sight 
of  my  dear  boy,  and  by  the — " glancing  at  the  downcast 
eyes  of  Florence,  and  not  attempting  to  finish  the  sen- 
tence— ‘ * that  I— I can't  say  much  to-night.  But  my  dear 
Ned  Cuttle,  why  didn't  you  v/rite  ? " 

The  astonishment  depicted  in  the  captain's  features 
positively  frightened  Mr.  Toots,  whose  eyes  were  quite 
fixed  by  it,  so  that  he  could  not  withdraw  them  from 
his  face 

Write  ! " echoed  the  captain.  Write,  Sol  Gills  ! " 

Ay,"  said  the  old  man,  either  to  Barbados,  or 
Jamaica,  or  Demerara.  That  was  what  I asked." 

What  you  asked,  Sol  Gills  ! " repeated  the  captain. 

Ay,"  said  the  old  man.  Don't  you  know,  Ned? 
Sure  you  have  not  forgotten  ? Every  time  I wrote  to 
you." 

The  captMn  took  off  his  glazed  hat,  hung  it  on  hi^ 
hook, and  smoothing  his  hair  from  behind  mth  his  hand, 
sat  gazing  at  the  group  around  him  : a perfect  image  oi 
wondering  resignation. 

You  don't  appear  to  understand  me,  Ned  ! " observed 
old  Sol. 

Sol  Gills,"  returned  the  captain,  lifter  staring  at  him 
and  the  rest  for  a long  time,  without  speaking,  ‘‘  I'm 
gone  about  and  adrift.  Pay  out  a word  or  two  respect' 
ing  them  adwentures,  will  you  ! Can't  I bring  up,  no- 
liows  ? nohows  ? " said  the  captain,  ruminating,  and 
staring  all  round. 

“ You  know,  Ned,"  said  Sol  Gills,  '‘why  I left  here, 
Did  you  open  my  packet,  Ned  ? " 


510 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


**  Why,  ay,  ay/'  said  the  captain.  To  be  sure,  | 
opened  the  packet.” 

* ‘ And  read  it  ? ” said  the  old  man. 

“ And  read  it,”  answered  the  captain,  eyeing  him  at- 
tentively, and  proceeding  to  quote  it  from  memory. 

" My  dear  Ned  Cuttle,  when  I left  home  for  the  West 
Indies  in  forlorn  search  of  intelligence  of  my  dear — ' 
Til  ere  he  sits  ! There's  Wal'r  said  the  captain,  as 
if  he  were  relieved  by  getting  hold  of  anything  that 
was  real  and  Indisputable. 

“ Well,  Ned.  Now  attend  a moment  I ” said  the  old 
man.  When  I wrote  first — that  was  from  Barbados — 
I said  that  though  you  would  receive  that  letter,  long 
before  the  year  was  out,  I should  be  glad  if  you  would 
open  the  packet,  as  it  explained  the  reason  of  my  going 
away.  Very  good,  Ned.  When  I wTote  the  second, 
third,  and  perhaps  the  fourth  times — that  was  from 
Jamaica — I said  I was  in  just  the  same  state,  couldn't 
rest,  and  couldn’t  come  away  from  that  part  of  the 
world,  without  knowing  that  my  boy  was  lost  or  saved. 
When  I wrote  next — that,  I think,  was  from  Demerara, 
wasn't  it  ? ” 

That  he  thinks  was  from  Demerara,  wam’t  it  ! ” 
said  the  captain,  looking  hopelessly  round. 

— I s:  ’d,”  proceeded  old  Sol,  ‘‘  that  still  there  w^as 
no  certain  information  got  yet.  That  I found  many 
captains  and  others,  in  that  part  of  the  world,  who  had 
known  me  for  years,  and  who  assisted  me  with  a pas- 
sage here  and  there,  and  for  whom  I was  able,  now  and 
then,  to  do  a little  in  return,  in  my  own  craft.  That 
everyone  was  sorry  for  me,  and  seemed  to  take  a,  sort  of 
interest  in  my  wanderings  ; and  that  I began  to  think 
it  would  be  my  fate  to  cruise  about  in  search  of  tidings 
of  my  boy  until  I died.” 

‘‘  Began  to  think  as  how  he  was  a scientific  flying 
Dutchman  ! ” said  the  captain,  as  before,  and  with  great 
seriousness. 

But  when  the  news  come  one  day,  Ned, — that  was 
to  Barbados,  after  I got  back  there,— that  a China  trader 
home'ard  bound  had  been  spoke,  that  had  my  boy  aboard 
then,  Ned,  I took  passage  in  the  next  ship  and  came 
home  ; and  arrived  at  home  to-night  to  find  it  true,  thank 
God  !”  said  the  old*man,  devoutly. 

The  captain  after  bowing  his  head  with  great  rever- 
ence, stared  all  around  the  circle,  beginning  with  Mr. 
Toots,  and  ending  with  the  Instrument-maker:  then 
gravely  said  : 

Sol  Gills  ! The  observation  as  I'm  a-going  to  make 
is  calc'lated  to  blow  every  stitch  of  sail  as  you  can  carry, 
clean  out  of  the  bolt-ropes,  and  bring  you  on  your  beam- 
ends  with  a lurch.  Not  one  of  them  letters  was  ever 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


511 


delivered  to  Ed’ard  Cuttle.  Not  one  o’  them  letters/’ 
repeated  the  captain,  to  make  his  declaration  more  soh 
emn  and  impressive,  was  ever  delivered  to  Ed’ard 
Cuttle,  mariner,  of  England,  as  lives  at  home  at  ease, 
and  doth  improve  each  shining  hour  ! ” 

And  posted  by  my  own  hand  ! And  directed  by  my 
own  hand, Number  nine, Brig-place  ! ” exclaimed  old  Soh 
The  colour  all  went  out  of  the  captain’s  face,  and  all 
came  back  again  in  a glow. 

What  do  you  mean,  Sol  Gills,  my  friend,  by  Num 
ber  nine,  Brig-place  ! ” inquired  the  captain. 

Mean?  Your  lodgings,  Ned,”  returned  the  old  man. 
Mrs.  What’s-her-name  ! I shall  forg.et  my  own  name 
next,  but  I am  behind  the  present  time — I always  was, 
you  recollect — and  very  much  confused.  Mrs.  — 

Sol  Gills  ! ” said  the  captain,  as  if  he  were  putting 
the  most  improbable  case  in  the  world,  ‘‘it  ain’t  the 
name  of  MacStinger  as  you’re  a trying  to  remember  ? ” 

Of  course  it  is  ! ” exclaimed  the  Instrument-maker. 
To  be  sure  Ned.  Mrs.  MacStinger  ! ” 

Captain  Cuttle  whose  eyes  were  now  as  wide  open  as 
fthey  could  be,  and  the  knobs  upon  whose  face  were  per- 
fectly luminous,  gave  a long  shrill  whistle  of  a most 
melancholy  sound,  and  stood  gazing  at  everybody  in  a 
state  of  speechlessness. 

Overhaul  that  there  again,  Sol  Gills,  will  you  be  so 
kind?”  he  said  at  last. 

All  these  letters,”  returned  Uncle  Sol,  beating  time 
with  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand  upon  the  palm  of 
his  left,  with  a steadiness  and  distinctness  that  might 
have  done  honour,  even  to  the  infallible  chronometer  in 
his  pocket,  ‘‘  I posted  with  my  own  hand,  and  directed 
with  my  own  hand,  to  Captain  Cuttle,  at  Mrs.  MacSting- 
er’s,  Number  nine.  Brig- place.” 

The  captain  took  his  glazed  hat  off  his  hook,  looked 
into  it,  put  it  on,  and  sat  down. 

‘‘  Why,  friends  all,”  said  the  captain,  staring  round  in 
the  last  state  of  discomfiture,  '‘1  cut  and  run  from 
there  1 ” 

And  no  one  knew  where  you  were  gone.  Captain 
Cuttle  ? ” cried  Walter  hastily. 

Bless  your  heart,  WaTr,”  said  the  captain,  shaking 
his  head,  ‘‘  she’d  never  have  allowed  o’  my  coming  to 
take  charge  o’  this  here  property.  Nothing  could  be 
done  but  cut  and  run.  Lord  love  you,  Wal’r  ! ” said 
the  captain,  "^you’ve  only  seen  her  in  a calm  I But  see 
her  when  her  angry  passions  rise — and  make  a note 
on  ! ” 

I'd  give  it  her  !”  remarked  the  Nipper,  softly. 

Would  you,  do  you  think,  my  dear?”  returned  the 
captain,  with  feeble  admiration.  ‘‘  Well,  my  dear,  k 


512 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


does  you  credit.  But  there  ainH  no  wild  animal  I 
wouldn’t  sooner  face  myself.  I only  got  my  chest  away 
by  means  of  a friend  as  nobody’s  a match  for.  It  was 
no  good  sending  any  letter  there.  She  wouldn’t  take  in 
any  letter,  bless  you,”  said  the  captain,  under  them 
circumstances  ! Why,  you  could  hardly  make  it  worth 
a man’s  while  to  be  the  postman  ! ” 

“ Then  it’s  pretty  clear.  Captain  Cuttle,  that  all  of  us, 
and  you  and  Uncle  Sol  especially,”  said  Walter,  ^*may 
thank  Mrs.  MacStinger  for  no  small  anxiety.” 

The  general  obligation  in  this  wise  to  the  determined 
relict  of  the  late  Mr.  MacStinger,  was  so  apparent,  that 
the  captain  did  not  contest  the  point ; but  being  in  some 
measure  ashamed  of  his  position,  though  nobody  dwelt 
upon  the  subject,  and  Walter  especially  avoided  it,  re- 
membering the  last  conversation  he  and  the  captain  had 
held  together  re^oecting  it,  he  remained  under  a cloud 
for  nearly  five  mmuiRs — an  extraordinary  period  for  him 
— when  that  sun,  his  face,  broke  out  once  more,  shining 
on  all  beholders  with  extraordinary  brilliancy  ; and  fell 
into  a fit  of  shaking  hands  with  everybody  over  and  over 
again. 

At  an  early  hour,  but  not  before  Uncle  Sol  and  Walter 
had  questioned  each  other  at  some  length  about  their 
voyages  and  dangers,  they  all,  except  Walter,  vacated 
Florence’s  room,  and  went  down  to  the  parlour.  Here 
they  were  soon  afterwards  joined  by  Walter,  who  told 
them  Florence  was  a little  sorrowful  and  heavy-hearted, 
and  had  gone  to  bed.  Though  they  could  not  have  dis- 
turbed her  with  their  voices  down  there,  they  all  spoke 
in  a whisper  after  this  : and  each,  in  his  different  way, 
felt  very  lovingly  and  gently  towards  Walter’s  fair  young 
bride  ; and  a long  explanation  there  was  of  everything 
relating  to  her,  for  the  satisfaction  of  Uncle  Sol  ; and 
very  sensible  Mr.  Toots  was  of  the  delicacy  with  which 
Walter  made  his  name  and  services  important,  and  his 
presence  necessary  to  their  little  council. 

Mr.  Toots,”  said  Walter,  on  parting  with  him  at  the 
house  door,  ‘‘we  shall  see  each  other  to-morrow  morn- 
ing?” 

“ Lieutenant  Walters,”  returned  Mr.  Toots,  grasping 
his  hand  fervently,  “ I shall  certainly  be  present.” 

“ This  is  the  last  night  we  shall  meet  for  a long  time 
— the  last  night  we  may  ever  meet,”  said  Walter.  “Such 
a noble  heart  as  yours,  must  feel,  I think,  when  another 
heart  is  bound  to  it.  I hope  you  know  that  I am  very 
grateful  to  you  ? ” 

“ Walters,”  replied  Mr.  Toots,  quite  touched,  “ I 
should  be  glad  to  feel  that  you  had  reason  to  be  so.” 

“ Florence,”  said  Walter,  “on  this  last  night  of  her 
bearing  her  own  name,  has  made  me  promise — it  wag 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


513 


only  just  now,  wlien  you  left  us  together — that  I would 
tell  you,  with  her  dear  love — ’ 

Mr.  Toots  laid  his  hand  upon  the  door-post,  and  his 
eyes  upon  his  hand. 

“-'-with  her  dear  love, ’’said  Walter,  “that  she  can 
never  have  a friend  whom  she  will  value  above  you.  That 
the  recollection  of  your  true  consideration  for  her  always, 
can  never  be  forgotten  by  her.  That  she  remembers  you 
in  her  prayers  to-night,  and  hopes  that  you  will  think  of 
her  when  she  is  far  away.  Shall  I say  anything  for 
you  ? ” 

“ Say,  Walters,”  replied  Mr.  Toots  indistinctly,  “ that 
I shall  think  of  her  every  day,  but  never  without  feel- 
ing happy  to  know  that  she  is  married  to  the  man  she 
loves,  and  who  loves  her.  Say,  if  you  please,  that  I am 
sure  her  husband  deserves  her — even  her  ! ” — and  that  I 
am  glad  of  her  choice.” 

Mr.  Toots  got  more  distinct  as  he  came  to  these  last 
words,  and  raising  his  eyes  from  the  door-post,  said  them 
stoutly.  He  then  shook  Walter’s  hand  again  with  a fer- 
vour that  Walter  was  not  slow  to  return,  and  started 
homeward, 

Mr.  Toots  was  accompanied  by  the  Chicken,  whom 
he  had  of  late  brought  with  him  every  evening,  and  left 
in  the  shop  with  an  idea  that  unforeseen  circumstances 
might  arise  from  without,  in  which  the  prowess  of  that 
distinguished  character  would  be  of  service  to  the  Mid- 
shipman, The  Chicken  did  not  appear  to  be  in  a par- 
ticularly good  humour  on  this  occasion.  Either  the  gas- 
iamps  were  treacherous,  or  he  cocked  his  eye  in  a hide- 
ous manner,  and  likewise  distorted  his  nose,  when  Mr. 
Toots,  crossing  the  road,  looked  back  over  his  shoulder 
at  the  room  where  Florence  slept.  On  the  road  home, 
he  was  more  demonstrative  of  aggressive  intentions 
against  the  other  foot  passengers,  than  comported  with 
a professor  of  the  peaceful  art  of  self-defence.  Arrived 
at  home,  instead  of  leaving  Mr.  Toots  in  his  apartments 
when  he  had  escorted  him  thither,  he  remained  before 
him  weighing  his  white  hat  in  both  hands  by  the  brim, 
and  twitching  his  head  and  nose  (both  of  which  had  been 
many  times  broken,  and  but  indifferently  repaired),  with 
an  air  of  decided  disrespect. 

His  patron  being  much  engaged  with  his  own  thoughts, 
did  not  observe  this  for  some  time,  nor  indeed  until  the 
Chicken,  determined  not  to  be  overlooked,  had  made 
divers  clicking  sounds  with  his  tongue  and  teeth,  to  at- 
tract attention. 

“ Now  master,”  said  the  Chicken,  doggedly,  when  he, 
at  length,  caught  Mr.  Toots’s  eye,  “I  want  to  know 
whether  this  here  gammon  is  to  finish  it,  or  whether 
you’re  a going  in  to  win  ? ” 


614 


WOKKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Chicken,”  returned  Mr.  Toots,  “ explain  yourself.’^ 
Why  then,  here’s  all  about  it,  master,”  said  the 
Chicken.  “ I ain’t  a cove  to  chuck  a word  away.  Here’s 
wot  it  is.  Are  any  on  ’em  to  be  doubled  up  ! ” 

When  the  Chicken  put  this  question  he  dropped  his 
hat,  made, a dodge  and  a feint  with  his  left  hand,  hit  a 
supposed  enemy  a violent  blow  with  his  right,  shook  his 
head  smartly,  and  recovered  himself. 

Come  master,”  said  the  Chicken.  Is  it  to  be  gam- 
mon or  pluck  ! Which  ? ” 

“ Chicken,”  returned  Mr.  Toots,  your  expressions  are 
coarse  and  your  meaning  is  obscure.” 

‘"Why,  then,  I tell  you  what,  master,”  said  the 
Chicken.  “ This  is  where  it  is.  It’s  mean.” 

‘‘  What  is  mean,  Chicken  ?”  asked  Mr.  Toots. 

“ It  is,”  said  the  Chicken,  with  a frightful  corrugation 
of  his  broken  nose.  "‘There!  Now,  master!  Wot! 
Wen  you  could  go  and  blow  on  this  here  match  to  the 
stifl’un  ; ” by  which  depreciatory  appellation  it  has  been 
since  supposed  that  the  Game  One  intended  to  signify 
Mr.  Dombey  ; “ and  when  you  could  knock  the  winner 
and  all  the  kit  of  ’em  dead  out  of  wind  and  time,  are 
you  going  to  give  in?  To  give  in?  ” said  the  Chicken, 
with  contemptuous  emphasis.  ” Wy,  it’s  mean  ! ” 

“Chicken,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  severely,  “you’re  a per- 
fect vulture  ! Your  sentiments  are  atrocious.” 

“ My  sentiments  is  game  and  fancy,  master,”  returned 
the  Chicken.  “ That’s  wot  my  sentiments  is.  I can’t 
abear  a meanness.  I’m  afore  the  public.  I’m  to  be  heerd 
on  at  the  bar  of  the  Little  Helepliant,  and  no  Gov’ner  o’ 
tnine  mustn’t  go  and  do  what’s  mean.  Wy,  it’s  mean,” 
said  the  Chicken,  with  increased  expression.  “ That’s 
where  it  is.  It’s  mean.” 

“ Chicken  ! ” said  Mr.  Toots,  “ you  disgust  me.” 

“Master,”  returned  the  Chicken,  putting  on  his  hat, 
“ there’s  a pair  on  us,  then.  Come  ! Here’s  a offer  ! 
You’ve  spoke  to  me  more  than  once’t  or  twice’t  about 
the  public  line.  Never  mind  ! Give  me  fi’typunnote 
to-morrow,  and  let  me  go.” 

“Chicken,”  returned  Mr.  Toots,  “after  the  odious 
sentiments  you  have  expressed,  I shall  be  glad  to  part 
on  such  terms.” 

“ Done  then,”  said  the  Chicken.  “ It’s  a bargain. 
This  here  conduct  of  yourn,  won’t  suit  my  book,  master. 
Wy  it’s  mean,”  said  the  Chicken  ; who  seemed  equally 
unable  to  get  beyond  that  point,  and  to  stop  short  of  it. 
“ That’s  were  it  is  ; it’s  mean  ! ” 

So  Mr.  Toots  and  the  Chicken  agreed  to  part  on  this 
incompatibility  of  moral  perception  ; and  Mr.  Toots  ly- 
ing down  to  sleep,  dreamed  happily  of  Florence,  who 
had  thought  of  him  as  her  friend  upon  the  last  night  of 
her  maiden  life,  and  sent  him  her  dear  love. 


WY,  it’s  mean.  ....  that’s  where  it  is.  it’s  mean  ! ” 

— Dombey  and  Son,  Vol.  Twelve,  page  515. 


516 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


OHAPTER  LVII. 

Another  Wedding. 

Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle,  and  Mrs.  Miff  the  pew-opener, 
are  early  at  their  posts  in  the  fine  church  where  Mr. 
Dombey  was  married.  A yellow- faced  old  gentleman 
from  India,  is  going  to  take  unto  himself  a young  wife 
this  morning,  and  six  carriages  full  of  company  are  ex- 
pected, and  Mrs.  Miff  has  been  Informed  that  the  yel- 
low-faced old  gentleman  could  pave  the  road  to  the 
church  with  diamonds  and  hardly  miss  them. 

The  nuptial  benediction  is  to  be  a superior  one,  pro- 
ceeding from  a very  reverend,  a dean,  and  the  lady  is  to 
be  given  away,  as  an  extraordinary  present,  by  some- 
body who  comes  express  from  the  Horse  Guards. 

Mrs.  Miff  is  more  intolerant  of  common  people  this 
corning,  than  she  generally  is  ; and  she  has  always 
strong  opinions  on  that  subject,  for  it  is  associated  with 
free  sittings.  Mrs.  Miff  is  not  a student  of  political 
economy  (she  thinks  the  science  is  connected  with  dis- 
senters ; Baptists  or  Wesleyans,  or  some  o’  them,”  she 
says),  but  she  can  never  understand  what  business  your 
common  foJk  have  to  be  married.  Drat ’em,”  says 
Mrs.  Miff,  ‘ ‘ you  read  the  same  things  over  ’em  and  in- 
stead of  sovereigns  get  sixpences  ! ” 

Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle  is  more  liberal  than  Mrs.  Miff 
— but  then  he  is  not  a pew-opener.  ''It  must  be  done, 
ma’am,”  he  says.  "We  must  marry  ’em.  We  must 
have  our  national  schools  to  walk  at  the  head  of,  and  we 
must  have  our  standing  armies.  We  must  marry  ’em, 
ma’am,”  said  Mr.  Sownds,  "and  keep  the  country  go- 
ing.” 

Mr.  Sownds  is  sitting  on  the  steps  and  Mrs.  Miff  is 
dusting  in  the  church,  when  a young  cou^e,  plainly 
dressed,  come  in.  The  mortified  bonnet  of  Mrs.  Miff  is 
^sharply  turned  towards  them,  for  she  espies  in  this  early 
visit  indications  of  a runaway  match.  But  they  don’t 
want  to  be  married — "Only,”  says  the  gentleman,  "to 
walk  round  the  church.”  And  as  he  slips  a genteel 
compliment  into  the  palm  of  Mrs.  Miff,  her  vinegary 
face  relaxes,  and  her  mortified  bonnet  and  her  spare  dry 
figure  dip  and  crackle. 

Mrs.  Miff  resumes  her  dusting  and  plumps  up  her  cush- 
ions— for  the  yellow- faced  old  gentleman  is  reported  to 
bave  tender  knees — but  keeps  her  glazed  pew-opening 
«9ye  on  the  young  couple  who  are  walking  round  the 
church.  " Ahem,”  coughs  Mrs.  Miff,  whose  cough  is 
(drier  than  the  hay  in  any  hassock  in  her  charge,  " you’ll 


DOMBET  AND  SON. 


517 


come  to  us  one  of  these  mornings,  my  dears,  unless  Fm 
much  mistaken  1 

They  are  looking  at  a tablet  on  the  wall,  erected  to  the 
memory  of  some  one  dead.  They  are  a long  way  oft 
from  Mrs.  Miff,  but  Mrs.  Miff  can  see  with  half  an  eye 
how  she  is  leaning  on  bis  arm,  and  how  his  head  is  bent 
aown  over  her.  Well,  well,’’  says  Mrs.  Miff,  "‘you 
might  do  worse.  For  you’re  a tidy  pair  ! ” 

There  is  nothing  personal  in  Mrs.  Miff’s  remark.  She 
merely  speaks  of  stock  in  trade.  She  is  hardly  more 
curious  in  couples  than  in  coffins.  She  is  such  a spare, 
straight,  dry  old  lady — such  a pew  of  a woman — that  you 
should  find  as  many  individual  sympathies  in  a chip. 
Mr.  Sownds,  now,  who  is  fleshy,  and  has  scarlet  in  his 
coat,  is  of  a different  temperament.  He  says,  as  they 
stand  upon  the  steps  watching  the  young  couple  away, 
that  she  has  a pretty  figure,  hasn’t  she,  and  as  well  as  he 
could  see  (for  she  held  her  head  down  coming  out),  an 
uncommon  pretty  face.  ^‘  Altogether,  Mrs.  Miff,”  says 
Mr.  Sownds  with  a relish,  “ she  is  what  you  may  call  a 
rosebud.” 

Mrs.  Miff  assents  with  a spare  nod  of  her  mortified  bom 
net ; but  approves  of  this  so  little,  that  she  inwardly  re- 
solves she  wouldn’t  be  the  wife  of  Mr.  Sownds  for  any 
money  he  could  give  her,  beadle  as  he  is. 

And  what  are  the  young  couple  saying  as  they  leave 
the  church,  and  go  out  at  the  gate  ? 

“ Dear  Walter,  thank  you  ! I can  go  away  now,  hap- 

py’’ 

“ And  when  we  come  back,  Florence,  we  will  come  and 
see  his  grave  again.” 

Florence  lifts  her  eyes,  so  bright  with  tears,  to  his  kind 
face  ; and  clasps  her  disengaged  hand  on  that  other  mod^ 
est  little  hand  which  clasps  his  arm. 

“ It  is  very  early,  Walter,  and  the  streets  are  almost 
empty  yet.  Let  us  walk.” 

“ But  you  will  be  so  tired,  my  love.” 

“ Oh  no  ! I was  very  tired  the  first  time  that  we  ever 
walked  together,  but  I shall  not  be  so  to-day.” 

And  thus — not  much  changed — she,  as  innocent  and 
earnest-hearted — he,  as  frank,  as  hopeful,  and  more  proud 
of  her — Florence  and  Walter,  on  their  bridal  morning, 
walk  through  the  streets  together. 

Not  even  in  that  childish  walk  of  long  ago,  were  they 
so  far  removed  from  all  the  world  about  them  as  to-day. 
The  childish  feet  of  long  ago,  did  not  tread  such  enchant^ 
ed  ground  as  theirs  do  now.  The  confidence  and  love  of 
children  may  be  given  many  times,  and  will  spring  up  in 
many  places  ; but  the  woman’s  heart  of  Florence  with  its 
undivided  treasure,  can  be  yielded  only  once,  and  under 
slight  or  change,  can  only  droop  and  die. 


518 


WOKKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Tliey  take  the  streets  that  are  the  quietest^  and  do  not 

near  that  in  which  her  old  home  stands.  It  is  a fair, 
warm  summer  morning,  and  the  sun  shines  on  them,  as 
they  walk  towards  the  darkening  mist  that  overspreads 
the  city.  Eiches  are  uncovering  in  shops  ; jewels,  gold, 
and  silver  flash  in  the  goldsmith’s  sunny  v/indows  ; and 
great  houses  cast  a stately  shade  upon  them  as  they  pass. 
But  through  the  light,  and  through  the  shade,  they  go  on 
lovingly  together,  lost  to  everything  around  ; thinking  of 
no  other  riches,  and  no  prouder  home,  than  they  have 
now  in  one  another. 

Gradually  they  come  into  the  darker,  narrower  streets, 
where  the  sun,  now  yellow,  and  now  red,  is  seen  through 
the  mist,  only  at  street  corners,  and  in  small  open  spaces 
where  there  is  a tree,  or  one  of  the  innumerable  churches, 
or  a paved  way  and  a flight  of  steps,  or  a curious  little 
patch  of  garden,  or  a burying-ground,  where  the  few 
tombs  and  tomb-stones  are  almost  black.  Lovingly  and 
trustfully,  through  all  the  narrow  yards  and  alleys  and 
the  shady  streets,  Florence  goes,  clinging  to  his  arm,  to 
be  his  wife. 

Her  heart  beats  quicker  now,  for  Walter  tells  her  that 
their  church  is  very  near.  They  pass  a few  great  stacks 
of  warehouses,  with  waggons  at  the  doors,  and  busy  car- 
men stopping  up  the  way — but  Florence  does  not  see  or 
hear  them — and  then  the  air  is  quiet,  and  the  day  is  dark- 
ened, and  she  is  trembling  in  a church  which  has  a strange 
smell  like  a cellar. 

The  shabby  little  old  man,  ringer  of  the  disappointed 
bell,  is  standing  in  the  porch,  and  has  put  his  hat  in  the 
font — for  he  is  quite  at  home  there,  being  sexton.  He 
ushers  them  into  an  old,  browm,  panelled,  dusty  vestry, 
like  a corner  cupboard  with  the  shelves  taken  out ; where 
the  wormy  registers  diffuse  a smell  like  faded  snuff, 
which  has  set  the  tearful  Nipper  sneezing. 

Youthful,  and  how  beautiful,  the  young  bride  looks,  ’ 
in  this  old  dusty  place,  with  no  kindred  object  near  her 
but  her  husband.  There  is  a dusty  old  clerk,  ’who  keeps 
a sort  of  evaporated  news  shop  underneath  an  archway 
opposite,  behind  a perfect  fortification  of  posts.  There 
is  a dusty  old  pew-opener  who  only  keeps  herself,  and 
finds  that  quite  enough  to  do.  There  is  a dusty  old  bea- 
dle (these  are  Mr.  Toots’s  beadle  and  pew-opener  of  last 
Sunday),  who  has  something  to  do  with  a Worshipful 
Company  who  have  got  a Hall  in  the  next  3^ard,  with  a 
stained-glass  window  in  it  that  no  mortal  ever  saw.  There 
are  dusty  wooden  ledges  and  cornices  poked  in  and  out 
over  the  altar,  and  over  the  screen  and  round  the  gallery, 
^nd  over  the  inscription  about  what  the  Master  and  War  . 
dens  of  the  Worshipful  Company  did  in  one  thousand  six 
hundred  and  ninety-four.  There  are  dusty  old  sounding- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


519 


boards  over  tbe  pulpit  and  reading-desk,  looking  like 
lids  to  be  let  down  on  the  officiating  ministers,  in  case  of 
their  giving  oifence.  There  is  every  possible  provision 
for  the  accommodation  of  dust,  except  in  the  church- 
yard, where  the  facilities  in  that  respect  are  very  lim- 
ited. 

The  captain,  Uncle  Sol,  and  Mr.  Toots,  are  come  ; the 
clergyman  is  putting  on  his  surplice  in  the  vestry,  while 
the  clerk  walks  round  him,  blowing  the  dust  off  it ; and 
the  bride  and  bridegroom  stand  before  the  altar.  There 
is  no  bridesmaid,  unless  Susan  Nipper  is  one  ; and  no 
better  father  than  Captain  Cuttle.  A man  with  a wooden 
leg,  chewing  a faint  apple  and  carrying  a blue  bag  in 
his  hand,  looks  in  to  see  what  is  going  on  ; but  finding 
it  nothing  entertaining,  stumps  off  again,  and  pegs  his 
way  among  the  echoes  out  of  doors. 

No  gracious  ray  of  light  is  seen  to  fall  on  Florence, 
kneeling  at  the  altar  with  her  timid  head  bowed  down. 
The  morning  luminary  is  built  out,  and  don’t  shine 
there.  There  is  a meagre  tree  outside,  where  the  spar- 
rows are  chirping  a little  ; and  there  is  a blackbird  in  an 
eyelet-hole  of  sun  in  a dyer’s  garret,  over  against  the 
window,  who  whistles  loudly  whilst  the  service  is  per- 
forming ; and  there  is  the  man  with  the  wooden  leg 
stumping  away.  The  amens  of  the  dusty  clerk  appear, 
like  Macbeth’s,  to  stick  in  his  throat  a little  ; but  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  helps  him  out,  and  does  it  with  so  much  good- 
will that  he  interpolates  three  entirely  new  responses  of 
that  word,  never  introduced  into  the  service  before. 

They  are  married,  and  have  signed  their  names  in  one 
of  the  old  sneezy  registers,  and  the  clergyman’s  sur- 
plice is  restored  to  the  dust,  and  the  clergyman  is  gone 
home:  In  a dark  corner  of  the  dark  church,  Florence 
has  turned  to  Susan  Nipper,  and  is  weeping  in  her  arms. 
Mr.  Toots’s  eyes  are  red.  The  captain  lubricates  his* 
nose.  Uncle  Sol  has  pulled  down  his  spectacles  from 
his  forehead,  and  walked  out  to  the  door. 

God  bless  you,  Susan  ; dearest  Susan  ! If  you  ever 
can  bear  witness  to  the  love  I have  for  Walter,  and  the 
reason  that  I have  to  love  him,  do  it  for  his  sake.  Good 
bye  ! Good  bye  ! ” 

They  have  thought  it  better  not  to  go  back  to  the  Mid- 
shipman, but  to  part  so  ; a coach  is  waiting  for  them, 
near  at  hand. 

Miss  Nipper  cannot  speak  ; she  only  sobs  and  chokes, 
and  hugs  her  mistress.  Mr.  Toots  advances,  urges  her  to 
cheer  up,  and  takes  charge  of  her.  Florence  gives  him 
her  hand — gives  him,  in  the  fulness  of  her  heart,  her 
lips — kisses  Uncle  Sol,  and  Captain  Cuttle,  and  is  borne 
away  by  her  young  husband. 

But  Susan  cannot  bear  that  Florence  should  go  away 


520 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


•with  a mournful  recollection  of  her.  She  had  meant  to 
be  so  different,  that  she  reproaches  herself  bitterly.  In 
tent  on  making  one  last  effort  to  redeem  her  character, 
she  breaks  from  Mr.  Toots  and  runs  away  to  find  the 
coach,  and  show  a parting  smile.'  The  captain,  divining 
her  object,  sets  off  after  her  ; for  he  feels  it  his  duty 
also,  to  dismiss  them  with  a cheer,  if  possible.  Uncle 
Sol  and  Mr.  Toots  are  left  behind  together,  outside  the 
church,  to  wait  for  them. 

The  coach  is  gone,  but  the  street  is  steep,  and  narrow^, 
and  blocked  up,  and  Susan  can  see  it  at  a stand-still  in 
the  distance,  she  is  sure.  Captain  Cuttle  follows  her  as 
she  flies  down  the  hill,  and  waves  his  glazed  hat  as  a 
general  signal,  which  may  attract  the  right  coach  and 
may  not. 

Susan  outstrips  the  captain,  and  comes  up  with  it. 
She  looks  in  at  the  window,  sees  Walter,  with  the  gentle 
face  beside  him,  and  claps  h®r  hands  and  screams  : 

‘*Miss  Floy,  my  darling  ! look  at  me  ! We  are  all  so 
happy  now,  dear  ! One  more  good  Bye,  my  precious 
one  more  ! ” 

How  Susan  does  it,  she  don’t  know,  but  she  reaches  to 
the  window,  kisses  her,  and  has  her  arms  about  her  neck, 
in  a moment. 

‘‘  VVe  are  all  so — so  happy  now,  my  dear  Miss  Floy  ! 
says  Susan,  with  a suspicious  catching  in  her  breath. 
‘‘You,  you  won’t  be  angry  with  me,  now.  Now  will 
you  ? ” 

“ Angry,  Susan  !” 

“ No,  no  ; I am  sure  you  won’t.  I say  you  won’t,  my 
pet,  my  dearest !”  exclaimed  Susan;  “and  here’s  th@ 
captain,  too — your  friend  the  captain,  you  know — to  say 
good  bye  once  more  1 ” 

“ Hooroar,  my  Heart’s  Delight  ! ” vociferates  the  cap- 
tain, with  a countenance  of  strong  emotion.  “ Hooroar, 
Wal’r  my  lad  ! Hooroar  ! Hooroar  ! ” 

What  with  the  young  husband  at  one  window,  and  the 
young  wife  at  the  other  ; the  captain  hanging  on  at  this 
door,  and  Susan  Nipper  holding  fast  by  that ; the  coach 
obliged  to  go  on  whether  it  will  or  no,  and  all  the  other 
carts  and  coaches  turbulent  because  it  hesitates  ; there 
never  v/as  so  much  confusion  on  four  wheels.  But  Su- 
san Nipper  gallantly  maintains  her  point.  She  keeps  a 
smiling  face  upon  her  mistress,  smiling  through  her  tears, 
until  the  last.  Even  when  she  is  left  behind,  the  cap 
tain  continues  to  appear  and  disappear  at  the  door  cry' 
ing  “ Hooroar,  my  lad  ! Hooroar,  my  Heart’s  Delight  ! ” 
with  his  shirt-collar  in  a violent  state  of  agitation,  until 
it  is  hopeless  to  attempt  to  keep  up  with  the  coach  any 
longer.  Finally,  when  the  coach  is  gone,  Susan  Nipper 
being  rejoined  by  the  captain,  falls  into  a state  of  insensi- 
bility, and  is  taken  into  a baker’s  shop  to  recover. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


521 


TJncle  Sol  and  Mr.  Toots  wait  patiently  in  the  clmrcliT 
yard,  sitting  on  the  coping-stone  of  the  railings, until  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  and  Susan  come  back.  Neither  being  at  all 
desirous  to  speak,  or  to  be  spoken  to,  they  are  excellent 
company,  and  quite  satisfied.  When  they  all  arrive 
again  at  the  little  Midshipman,  and  sit  down  to  break- 
fast, nobody  can  touch  a morsel.  Captain  Cuttle  makes 
a feint  of  being  voracious  about  toast,  but  gives  it  up 
as  a swindle,  Mr.  Toots  says,  after  breakfast,  he  will 
come  back  in  the  evening  ; and  goes  wandering  aboufe 
the  town  all  day,  with  a vague  sensation  upon  him  as  if 
he  hadn’t  been  to  bed  for  a fortnight. 

There  is  a strange  charm  in  the  house,  and  in  the 
room,  in  which  they  have  been  used  to  be  together,  and 
out  of  which  so  much  is  gone.  It  aggravates,  and  yet 
it  soothes,  the  sorrow  of  the  separation.  Mr.  Toots  tells 
Susan  Nipper  when  he  comes  at  night, that  he  hasn’t  been 
so  wretched  all  day  long,  and  yet  he  likes  it.  He  confides 
in  Susan  Nipper,  being  alone  with  her,  and  tells  her 
what  his  feelings  were  when  she  gave  him  that  candid 
opinion  as  to  the  probability  of  Miss  Dombey’s  ever  lov- 
ing him.  In  the  vein  of  confidence  engendered  by  these 
common  recollections,  and  their  tears,  Mr.  Toots  pro- 
poses that  they  shall  go  out  together,  and  buy  something 
for  supper.  Miss  Nipper  assenting,  they  buy  a good  many 
little  things  ; and,  with  the  aid  of  Mrs.  Richards,  set 
the  supper  out  quite  showily  before  the  captain  and  old 
Sol  came  home. 

The  captain  and  old  Sol  have  been  aboard  the  ship, 
and  have  established  Di  there,  and  have  seen  the  chests 
put  aboard.  They  have  much  to  tell  about  the  popularity 
of  Walter,  and  the  comforts  he  will  have  about  him,  and 
the  quiet  way  in  which  it  seems  he  has  been  working 
early  and  late,  to  make  his  cabin  what  the  captain  calls 
‘‘a  picter,”  to  surprise  his  little  wife.  “A  admiral’s 
cabin,  mind  you,”  says  the  captain,  ain’t  more  trim.” 

But  one  of  the  captain’s  chief  delights  is,  that  he  knows 
the  big  watch,  and  the  sugar-tongs,  and  tea-spoons, 
are  on  board  ; and  again  and  again  he  murmui*s  to  him- 
self, ‘‘  Ed’ard  Cuttle,  my  lad,  you  never  shaped  a better 
course  in  your  life,  than  when  you  made  that  there  little 
property  over  jintly.  You  see  how  the  land  bore, Ed’ard,” 
says  the  captain,  and  it  does  you  credit,  my  lad.” 

The  old  Instrument-maker  is  more  distraught  and 
misty  than  he  used  to  be,  and  takes  the  marriage  and  the 
parting  very  much  to  heart.  But  he  is  greatly  comforted 
by  having  his  old  ally,  Ned  Cuttle,  at  his  side  ; and  he 
sits  down  to  supper  with  a grateful  and  contented  face. 

My  boy  has  been  preserved  and  thrives,”  says  old 
Sol  Gills,  rubbing  his  hands.  What  right  have  I to 
be  otherwise  than  thankful  and  happy  J ” 


522 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENa 


Tlie  captain,  wlio  has  not  yet  taken  his  seat  at  the 
table,  but  who  has  been  fidgeting  about  for  some  time, 
and  now  stands  hesitating  in  his  place,  looks  doubtfully 
at  Mr.  Gills  and  says  : 

‘"Sol!  There’s  the  last  bottle  of  the  old  Madeira 
down  below.  Would  you  wish  to  have  it  up  to-night, 
my  boy,  and  drink  to  Wal’r  and  his  wife  ? ” 

The  Instrument-maker,  looking  wistfully  at  tbe  cap- 
tain, puts  his  hand  into  the  breast-pocket  of  his  colfee- 
coloured  coat,  brings  forth  his  pocket-book,  and  takes  a 
letter  out. 

“To  Mr.  Dombey,”  says  the  old  man.  “FromWah 
ter.  To  be  sent  in  three  weeks’  time.  I’ll  read  it.” 

“ ‘ Sir.  I am  married  to  your  daughter.  She  is  gone 
with  me  upon  a distant  voyage.  To  be  devoted  to  her  is 
to  have  no  claim  on  her  or  you,  but  God  knows  that  I 
am. 

‘ ‘ ‘ Why,  loving  her  beyond  all  earthly  things,  I have 
yet,  without  remorse,  united  her  to  the  uncertainties  and 
dangers  of  my  life,  I will  not  say  to  you.  You  know 
why,  and  you  are  her  father. 

“ ‘ Do  not  reproach  her.  She  has  never  reproached 
you. 

“ ‘ I do  not  think  or  hope  that  you  will  ever  forgive 
me.  There  is  nothing  I expect  less.  But  if  an  hour 
should  come  when  it  will  comfort  you  to  believe  that 
Florence  has  some  one  ever  near  her,  the  great  charge  of 
whose  life  is  to  cancel  her  remembrance  of  past  sorrow, 
I solemnly  assure  you,  you  may,  in  that  hour,  rest  in 
that  belief.” 

Solomon  puts  back  the  letter  carefully  in  his  pocket- 
book,  and  puts  back  his  pocket-book  in  his  coat. 

“We  won’t  drink  the  last  bottle  of  the  old  Madeira 
yet,  Ned,”  says  the  old  man  thoughtfully.  “ Not  yet.” 

“ Not  yet,”  assents  the  captain.  “ No.  Not  yet.” 

Susan  and  Mr.  Toots  are  of  the  same  opinion.  After-a 
silence  they  all  sit  down  to  supper,  and  drink  to  the  young 
husband  and  wife  in  something  else  ; and  the  last  bottle 
of  the  old  Madeira  still  remains  among  its  dust  and  cob- 
webs, undisturbed. 

A few  days  have  elapsed,  and  a stately  ship  is  out  at 
sea,  spreading  its  white  wings  to  the  favouring  wdnd. 

Upon  the  deck,  image  to  the  roughest  man  on  board  of 
something  that  is  graceful,  beautiful,  and  harmless — 
something  that  it  is  good  and  pleasant  to  have  there,  and 
that  should  make  the  voyage  prosperous — is  Florence. 
It  is  night,  and  she  and  Walter  sit  alone,  watching  the 
solemn  path  of  light  upon  the  sea  between  them  and  the 
moon. 

At  length  she  cannot  see  it  plainly,  for  the  tears  that 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


523 


fill  her  eyes  ; and  then  she  lays  her  head  down  on  his 
breast,  and  puts  her  arms  around  his  neck,  saying,  ‘‘  Oh 
Walter,  dearest  love,  I am  so  happy  ! ” 

Her  husband  holds  her  to  his  heart,  and  they  are  very 
quiet,  and  the  stately  ship  goes  on  serenely. 

“ As  I Lear  the  sea/'  says  Florence,  and  sit  watching 
it,  it  brings  so  many  days  into  my  mind.  It  makes  me 
think  so  much — 

‘‘  Of  Paul,  my  love.  I know  it  does/' 

Of  Paul  and  Walter.  And  the  voices  in  the  waves  are 
always  whispering  to  Florence,  in  their  ceaseless  mnr- 
muring,  of  love — of  love,  eternal  and  illimitable,  not 
bounded  by  the  confines  of  this  world,  or  by  the  end  of 
time,  but  ranging  still,  beyond  the  sea,  beyond  the  sky, 
to  the  invisible  country  far  away  I 


CHAPTEE  LYIIL 
After  a Lapse, 

The  sea  had  ebbed  and  flowed,  through  a whole  year. 
Through  a whole  year,  the  winds  and  clouds  had  come 
and  gone  ; the  ceaseless  work  of  Time  had  been  per- 
formed, in  storm  and  sunshine.  Through  a whole  year 
the  tides  of  human  chance  and  change  had  set  in  their 
allotted  courses.  Through  a whole  year,  the  famous 
house  of  Dombey  and  Son  had  fought  a fight  for  life, 
against  cross  accidents,  doubtful  rumours,  unsuccessful 
ventures,  unpropitious  times,  and  most  of  all,  against  the 
infatuation  of  its  head,  who  would  not  contract  its  en- 
terprises by  a hair's  breadth,  and  would  not  listen  to  a 
word  of  warning  that  the  ship  he  strained  so  hard  against 
the  storm,  was  weak,  and  could  not  bear  it. 

The  year  was  out  and  the  great  House  was  down. 

One  summer  afternoon  ; a year,  wanting  some  odd  days, 
after  the  marriage  in  the  City  church  ; there  was  a buzz 
and  whisper  upon  'Change  of  a great  failure.  A certain 
cold  proud  man,  well  known  there,  was  not  there,  nor 
was  he  represented  there.  Next  day  it  was  noised  abroad 
that  Dombey  and  Son  had  stopped,  and  next  night  there 
was  a list  of  bankrupts  published,  headed  by  that  name. 

The  world  was  very  busy  now,  in  sooth,  and  had  a deal 
to  say.  It  was  an  innocently  credulous  and  a much  ill 
used  world.  It  v/as  a world  in  which  there  was  no  other 
sort  of  bankruptcy  whatever.  There  were  no  conspicu- 
ous people  in  it,  trading  far  and  wide  on  rotten  banks  of 
religion,  patriotism,  virtue,  honour.  There  was  no  amount 
worth  Mentioning  of  mere  paper  in  circulation,  on  which 
anybody  lived  pretty  handsomely,  promising  to  pay  great 


524 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


sums  of  goodness  witli  no  effects.  There  were  no  short, 
comings  anywhere,  in  anything  but  money.  The  world 
was  very  angry  indeed  ; and  the  people  especially,  who, 
in  a worse  world,  might  have  been  supposed  to  be  bank^ 
rupt  traders  themselves  in  shows  and  pretences,  were  ob- 
served to  be  mightily  indignant. 

Here  was  a new  inducement  to  dissipation,  presented 
to  that  sport  of  circumstances,  Mr.  Perch  the  messenger  ! 
It  was  apparently  the  fate  of  Mr.  Perch  to  be  always 
waking  up,  and  finding  himself  famous.  He  had  but  yes- 
terday, as  one  might  say,  subsided  into  private  life  from 
the  celebrity  of  the  elopement  and  the  events  that  fol- 
lowed it  ; and  now  he  was  made  a more  important  man 
than  ever,  by  the  bankruptcy.  Gliding  from  his  bracket 
in  the  outer  oflSce  where  he  now  sat,  watching  the  strange 
faces  of  accountants  and  others,  who  quickly  superseded 
nearly  all  the  old  clerks,  Mr.  Perch  had  but  to  show  him- 
self in  the  court  outside,  or,  at  farthest,  in  the  bar  of 
the  King’s  Arms,  to  be  asked  a multitude  of  questions, 
almost  certain  to  include  that  interesting  question,  what 
would  he  take  to  drink?  Then  would  Mr.  Perch  des= 
cant  upon  the  hours  of  acute  uneasiness  he  and  Mrs. 
Perch  had  suffered  out  at  Balls  Pond,  when  they  first  sus- 
pected things  was  going  wrong.”  Then  would  Mr. 
Perch  relate  to  gaping  listeners,  in  a low  voice,  as  if  the 
corpse  of  the  deceased  House  were  lying  unburied  in  the 
next  room,  how  Mrs.  Perch  had  first  come  to  surmise  that 
things  was  going  wrong  by  bearing  him  (Perch)  moaning 
in  his  sleep,  ‘‘  twelve  and  ninepence  in  the  pound,  twelve 
and  ninepence  in  the  pound  ! ” Which  act  of  somnam- 
bulism he  supposed  to  have  originated  in  the  impression 
made  upon  him  by  the  change  in  Mr.  Dombey’s  face. 
Then  would  he  inform  them  how  he  had  once  said, 

Might  I make  so  bold  as  ask,  sir,  are  you  unhappy  in 
your  mind?”  and  how  Mr.  Dombey  had  replied,  “My 
faithful  Perch — but  no, it  cannot  be  ! ” and  with  that  had 
struck  his  hand  upon  his  forehead,  and  said,  “Leave me. 
Perch  ! ” Then,  in  short,  would  Mr.  Perch,  a victim  to 
his  position,  tell  all  manner  of  lies  ; affecting  himself  to 
tears  by  those  that  were  of  a moving  nature,  and  really 
believing  that  the  inventions  of  yesterday  had,  on  repe- 
tition, a sort  of  truth  about  them  to-day. 

Mr.  Perch  always  closed  these  conferences  by  meekly 
remarking.  That,  of  course,  whatever  his  suspicions 
might  have  been,  (as  if  he  had  ever  had  any  !)  it  wasn’t 
for  Mm  to  betray  his  trust — was  it  ? Which  sentiment 
(there  never  being  any  creditors  present)  was  received  as 
doing  great  honour  to  his  feelings.  Thus,  he  generally 
brought  away  a soothed  conscience  and  left  an  agreeable 
impression  behind  him,  when  he  returned  to  his  brack^^ 
et  : again  to  sit  watching  the  strange  faces  of  the  ac«= 


JOS  HAD  BEEN  DECEZVED,  SI  'IA:KEI)  HT,  HOODWINKED, 


526 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


countants  and  others,  making  so  free  with  the  great 
mysteries,  the  Books  ; or  now  and  then  to  go  on  tiptoe 
into  Mr.  Dombey's  empty  room,  and  stir  the  fire  ; or  to 
take  an  airing  at  the  door,  and  have  a little  more  doleful 
chat  with  any  straggler  whom  he  knew  ; or  to  propitiate, 
with  various  small  attentions,  the  head  accountant 
from  whom  Mr.  Perch  had  expectations  of  a messenger 
ship  in  a Fire  Office,  when  the  affairs  of  the  Houso 
should  be  wound  up. 

To  Major  Bagstock,  the  bankruptcy  was  quite  a calam 
ity.  The  major  was  not  a sympathetic  character — his 
attention  being  wholly  concentrated  on  J.  B. — nor  was 
he  a man  subject  to  lively  emotions,  except  in  the  phy 
sical  regards  of  gasping  and  choking.  But  he  had  so  pa- 
raded his  friend  Dombey  at  the  club  ; had  so  flourished 
him  at  the  heads  of  the  members  in  general,  and  so  put 
them  down  by  continual  assertion  of  his  riches  ; that  the 
club,  being  but  human,  was  delighted  to  retort  upon 
the  major,  by  asking  him,  with  a show  of  great  concern, 
whether  this  tremendous  smash  had  been  at  all  expected, 
and  how  his  friend  Dombey  bore  it.  To  such  questions, 
the  major,  waxing  very  purple,  would  reply  that  it  v/as 
a bad  world,  sir,  altogether  ; that  Joey  knew  a thing  or 
two,  but  had  been  done,  sir,  done  like  an  infant ; that  if 
you  had  foretold  this,  sir,  to  J.  Bagstock,  when  he  went 
abroad  with  Dombey  and  v/as  chasing  that  vagabond  up 
and  down  Prance,  J.  Bagstock  would  have  pooh-pooh’d 
you— would  have  pooh-pooh’d  you,  sir,  by  the  Lord 
That  Joe  had  been  deceived,  sir,  taken  in,  hoodwinked, 
blindfolded,  but  was  broad  awake  again  and  staring ; in- 
somuch, sir,  that  if  Joe’s  father  were  to  rise  up  from  the 
grave  to-morrow,  he  wouldn’t  trust  the  old  blade  with  a 
penny  piece,  but  would  tell  him  that  his  son  Josh  was 
too  old  a soldier  to  be  done  again,  sir.  That  he  was  a 
suspicious,  crabbed,  cranky,  used-  up,  J.  B.  infidel,  sir  ; 
and  that  if  it  were  consistent  with  the  dignity  of  a rough 
and  tough  old  major,  of  the  old  school,  who  had  had  the 
honour  of  being  personally  known  to,  and  commended 
by,  their  late  Royal  Highnesses  the  Dukes  of  Kent  and 
York,  to  retire  to  a tub  and  live  in  it,  b}^  Gad  ! sir,  he’d 
have  a tub  in  Pall  Mall  to-morrow,  to  show  his  contempt 
for  mankind  I 

Of  ail  this,  and  many  variations  of  the  same  tune,  the 
major  would  deliver  himself  with  so  many  apoplectic 
symptoms,  such  rollings  of  his  head,  and  such  violent 
growls  of  ill  usage  and  resentment,  that  the  younger 
members  of  the  club  surmised  he  had  invested  money  in 
his  friend  Dombey’s  House,  and  lost  it  ; though  the  older 
soldiers  and  deeper  dogs,  who  knew  Joe  better,  wouldn’t 
hear  of  such  a thing.  The  unfortunate  native,  express- 
ing no  opinion,  suffered  dreadfully  ; not  merely  in  his 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


521 


moral  feelings,  whicli  were  regularly  fusilladed  by  tlie 
major  every  hour  in  the  day,  and  riddled  through  and 
through,  but  in  his  sensitiveness  to  bodily  knocks  and 
bumps,  which  was  kept  continually  on  the  stretch.  For 
six  entire  weeks  after  the  bankruptcy,  this  miserable 
foreigner  lived  in  a rainy  season  of  boot- jacks  and 
brushes. 

Mrs.  Chick  had  three  ideas  upon  the  subject  of  the 
terrible  reverse.  The  first  was  that  she  could  not  under- 
stand it.  The  second,  that  her  brother  had  not  made  an 
effort.  The  third,  that  if  she  had  been  invited  to  din- 
ner on  the  day  of  that  first  party,  it  never  would  have 
happened  ; and  that  she  had  said  so,  at  the  time. 

Nobody's  opinion  stayed  the  misfortune,  lightened  it, 
or  made  it  heavier.  It  was  understood  that  the  affairs 
of  the  House  were  to  be  wound  up  as  they  best  could 
be  ; that  Mr.  Dombey  freely  resigned  everything  he  had, 
and  asked  no  favour  from  any  one.  That  any  resump- 
tion of  the  business  was  out  of  the  question,  as  he  would 
listen  to  no  friendly  negotiation  having  that  compro- 
mise in  view  ; that  he  had  relinquished  every  post  of 
trust  or  distinction  he  had  held,  as  a man  respected 
among  merchants  ; that  he  was  dying,  according  to  some  ; 
that  he  was  going  melancholy  mad,  according  to  others  ; 
that  he  was  a broken  man,  according  to  all. 

The  clerks  dispersed  after  holding  a little  dinner  of 
condolence  among  themselves,  which  was  enlivened  by 
comic  singing,  and  went  off  admirably.  Some  took 

E laces  abroad,  and  some  engaged  in  other  houses  at 
ome  ; some  looked  up  relations  in  the  country,  for 
whom  they  suddenly  remembered  they  had  a particular 
affection,  and  some  advertised  for  employment  in  the 
newspapers  : Mr.  Perch  alone  remained  of  all  the  late 
establishment,  sitting  on  his  bracket  looking  at  the  ac- 
countants, or  starting  off  it,  to  propitiate  the  head  ac- 
countant, who  was  to  get  him  into  the  Fire  Office.  The 
counting-house  soon  got  to  be  dirty  and  neglected.  The 
principal  slipper  and  dogs'  collar  seller,  at  the  corner  of 
the  court,  would  have  doubted  the  propriety  of  throwing 
up  his  forefinger  to  the  brim  of  his  hat,  any  more,  if  Mr. 
Dombey  had.  appeared  there  now  ; and  the  ticket  porter, 
with  his  hands  under  his  white  apron,  moralised  good 
sound  morality  about  ambition,  which  (he  observed)  was 
not,  in  his  opinion,  made  to  rhyme  to  perdition,  for 
nothing. 

Mr.  Morfin  the  hazel-eyed  bachelor,  with  the  hair  and 
whiskers  sprinkled  with  gray,  was  perhaps  the  only  per- 
son within  the  atmosphere  of  the  House — its  head,  of 
course,  excepted — who  was  heartily  and  deeply  affected 
by  the  disaster  that  had  befallen  it.  He  had  treated  Mr. 
Dombey  with  due  respect  and  deference  through  many 


538 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


years,  but  lie  bad  never  disguised  his  natural  character, 
or  meanly  truckled  to  him,  or  pampered  his  master  pas- 
sion for  the  advancement  of  his  own  purposes.  He  had, 
therefore,  no  self-disrespect  to  avenge  ; no  long- tight- 
ened springs  to  release  with  a quick  recoil.  He  worked 
early  and  late  to  unravel  whatever  Vv^as  complicated  or 
difficult  in  the  records  of  the  transactions  of  the  House ; 
was  always  in  attendance  to  explain  whatever  required 
explanation  ; sat  in  his  old  room  sometimes  very  late  at 
night,  studying  points  by  his  mastery  of  which  he  could 
spare  Mr.  JDombey  the  pain  of  being  personally  referred 
to  ; and  then  would  go  home  to  Islington,  and  calm  his 
mind  by  producing  the  most  dismal  and  forlorn  sounds 
out  of  his  violoncello  before  going  to  bed. 

He  was  solacing  himself  with  this  melodious  grumble? 
one  evening,  and,  having  been  much  dispirited  by  the 
proceedings  of  the  day,  was  scraping  consolation  out  of 
its  deepest  notes,  when  his  landlady  (who  was  fortunate- 
ly deaf,  and  had  no  other  consciousness  of  these  perform  - 
ances than  a sensation  of  something  rumbling  in  her 
bones)  announced  a lady. 

■*''  In  mourning,^"  she  said. 

■ The  violoncello  stopped  immediately  ; and  the  per- 
former, laying  it  on  a sofa  with  great  tenderness  and  care, 
made  a sign  that  the  lady  w as  to  come  in.  He  followed 
directly,  and  met  Harriet  Carker  on  the  stair. 

Alone  1’^  he  said,  ‘^and  John  here  this  morning! 
Is  there  anything  the  matter,  my  dear?  But  no,”  he 
added,  ‘‘your  face  tells  quite  another  story.” 

‘^I  am  afraid  it  is  a selfish  revelation  that  you  see 
there,  then,”  she  answered. 

“ It  is  a very  pleasant  one,”  said  he  ; “ and  if  selfish, 
a novelty  too,  worth  seeing  in  you.  But  I doffit  believe 
that.” 

He  had  placed  a chair  for  her  by  this  time,  and  sat 
down  opposite  : the  violoncello  lying  snugly  on  the  sofa 
between  them. 

“ You  will  not  he  surprised  at  my  coming  alone,  or  at 
John’s  not  having  told  you  I was  coming,”  said  Harriet  : 
“ and  you  will  believe  that,  when  I tell  you  why  I have 
come.  May  I do  so  nov/  ? ” 

“ You  can  do  nothing  better.” 

“You  were  not  busy  ?” 

He  pointed  to  the  violoncello  lying  on  the  sofa,  and 
said,  “I  have  been,  all  day.  Here’s  my  witness.  I have 
been  confiding  all  my  cares  to  it.  I wish  I had  none  but 
my  own  to  tell.  ” 

Is  the  House  at  an  end  ? ” said  Harriet,  earnestly 

“Completely  at  an  end.” 

“ Will  it  never  be  resumed  I ” 

“ i^ever.” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


529 


The  bright  expre^ssion  of  her  face  was  not  overshad- 
owed as  her  lips  silently  repeated  the  word.  He  seemed 
to  observe  this  with  some  little  involuntary  surprise  : 
and  said  again  : 

“Never.  You  remember  what  I told  you.  It  ha^ 
been,  all  along,  impossible  to  convince  him  : impossible 
to  reason  with  him  ; sometimes  impossible  even  to  ap- 
proach him.  The  worst  has  happened  ; and  the  House 
has  fallen,  never  to  be  built  up  any  more.’’ 

“ And  Mr.  Dombey,  is  he  personally  ruined  ?” 

“ Ruined.” 

“ Will  he  have  no  private  fortune  left  ? Nothing  ? ” 

A certain  eagerness  in  her  voice,  and  something  that 
Vvas  almost  joyful  in  her  look,  seemed  to  surprise  him 
more  and  more  ; to  disappoint  him  too,  and  jar  discord- 
antly against  his  own  emotions.  He  drummed  with  the 
fingers  of  one  hand  on  the  table,  looking  wistfully  at  her 
and  shaking  his  head,  said,  after  a pause  : 

“ The  extent  of  Mr.  Dombey’s  resources  is  not  accu- 
rately within  my  knowledge  ; but  though  they  are  doubh 
less  very  large,  his  obligations  are  enormous.  He  is  a 
gentleman  of  high  honour  and  integrity.  Any  man  in 
his  position  could,  and  many  a man  in  his  position  would, 
have  saved  himself,  by  making  terms  which  would  have 
very  slightly,  almost  insensibly,  increased  the  losses  of 
those  who  had  had  dealings  with  him,  and  left  him  a rem- 
nant to  live  upon.  But  he  is  resolved  on  payment  to  the 
last  farthing  of  his  means.  His  own  words  are,  that 
ihey  will  clear,  or  nearly  clear,  the  House,  and  that  no 
6ne  can  lose  much.  Ah,  Miss  Harriet,  it  would  do  us 
no  harm  to  remember  oftener  than  we  do,  that  vices  are 
sometimes  only  virtues  carried  to  excess  I His  pride 
shows  well  in  this.” 

She  heard  him  with  little  or  no  change  in  her  expres- 
sion, and  with  a divided  attention  that  showed  her  to  be 
busy  with  something  in  her  own  mind.  When  he  was 
silent,  she  asked  him  hurriedly  : 

“ Have  you  seen  him  lately  ? ” 

“No  one  sees  him.  When  this  crisis  of  his  affairs 
tenders  it  necessary  for  him  to  come  out  of  his  house,  he 
comes  out  for  the  occasion,  and  again  goes  home,  and 
shuts  himself  up,  and  sees  no  one.  He  has  written  me  a 
letter,  acknowledging  our  past  connexion  in  higher  terms 
than  it  deserved,  and  parting  from  me.  I am  delicate  of 
obtruding  myself  upon  him  now,  never  having  had  much 
intercourse  with  him  in  better  times  ; but  I have  tried 
to  do  so.  I have  written,  gone  there,  entreated.  Quite 
In  vain.” 

He  watched  her,  as  in  the  hope  that  she  would  testify 
some  greater  concern  than  she  had  yet  shown  ; and 
spoke  gravely  and  feelingly,  as  if  to  impress  her  the 
more  ; But  there  was  no  change  in  her. 

VoL.  12-  — W 


530 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Well,  well,  Miss  Harriet/*  lie  said,  with  a disappoint- 
ed air,  this  is  not  to  the  purpose.  You  have  not  come 
here  to  hear  this.  Some  other  and  pleasanter  theme  is 
in  your  mind.  Let  it  be  in  mine,  too,  and  we  shall  talk 
upon  more  equal  terms.  Come  ! ’’ 

"'No,  it  is  the  same  theme,’'  returned  Harriet,  with 
frank  and  quick  surprise.  ""Is  it  not  likely  that  it 
should  be  ? Is  it  not  natural  that  John  and  I should 
have  been  thinking  and  speaking  very  much  of  late  of 
these  great  changes  ? Mr.  Dombey , whom  he  served  so 
many  years — you  know  upon  what  terms — reduced,  as 
you  describe  ; and  we  quite  rich  ! ” 

Good,  true  face,  as  that  face  of  hers  was,  and  pleasant 
as  it  had  been  to  him,  Mr.  Morfin,  the  hazel-eyed  bach- 
elor, since  the  first  time  he  had  ever  looked  upon  it,  it 
pleased  him  less  at  that  moment,  lighted  with  a ray  of 
exultation,  than  it  had  ever  pleased  him  before. 

""  I need  not  remind  you,"  said  Harriet,  casting  down 
her  eyes  upon  her  black  dress,  ""  through  what  means 
our  circumstances  changed.  You  have  not  forgotten 
that  our  brother  James,  upon  that  dreadful  day,  left  no 
will,  no  relations  but  ourselves.” 

The  face  was  pleasanter  to  him  now,  though  it  was 
pale  and  melancholy,  than  it  had  been  a moment  since. 
He  seemed  to  breathe  more  cheerily. 

""You  know,”  she  said,  ""our  history,  the  history 
of  both  my  brothers,  in  connexion  with  the  unfortunate, 
unhappy  gentleman,  of  whom  you  have  spoken  so  truly. 
You  know  how  few  our  wants  are — John's  and  mine — and 
what  little  use  we  have  for  money,  after  the  life  we  have 
led  together  for  so  many  years  ; and  now  that  he  is  earn- 
ing an  income  that  is  ample  for  us,  through  your  kind- 
ness. You  are  not  unprepared  to  hear  what  favour  I 
have  come  to  ask  of  you  ? ” 

"‘I  hardly  know.  I was,  a minute  ago.  Now  I think, 
I am  not.” 

""  Of  my  dead  brother  I say  nothing.  If  the  dead  know 
what  we  do — but  you  understand  me.  Of  my  living 
brother  I could  say  much  : but  what  need  I say  more, 
than  that  this  act  of  duty,  in  which  I have  come  to  ask 
your  indispensable  assistance,  is  his  own,  and  that  he 
cannot  rest  until  it  is  performed  ! " 

She  raised  her  eyes  again  ; and  the  light  of  exultation 
in  her  face  began  to  appear  beautiful,  in  the  observant 
eyes  that  watched  her. 

""  Dear  sir,”  she  went  on  to  say,  ""  it  must  be  don©  very 
quietly  and  secretly.  Your  experience  and  knowledge 
will  point  out  a way  of  doing  it.  Mr.  Dombey  may,  per- 
haps, be  led  to  believe  that  it  is  something  saved,  unex- 
pectedly, from  the  wreck  of  his  fortunes  ; or  that  it  is  a 


DOMBSY  AND  SON. 


531 


voluntary  tribute  to  liis  honourable  and  upright  charac- 
ter, from  some  of  those  with  whom  he  has  had  great 
dealings  or  that  it  is  some  old  lost  debt  repaid.  There 
must  be  many  v^^ays  of  doing  it  I know  you  will  choose 
the  best.  The  favour  I have  come  to  ask  is,  that  you 
will  do  it  for  us  in  your  own  kind,  generous,  considerate 
manner.  That  you  will  never  speak  of  it  to  John,  whose 
chief  happiness  in  this  act  of  restitution  is  to  do  it  se> 
cretly,  unknown  and  unapproved  of  ; that  only  a very 
small  p rt  of  the  inheritance  may  be  reserved  to  us, 
until  Mr.  Dombey  shall  have  possessed  the  interest  of 
the  rest  for  the  remainder  of  his  life  ; that  you  will  keep 
our  secret  faithfully — but  that  I am  sure  you  will  ; and 
that,  from  this  time,  it  may  seldom  be  whispered,  even 
between  you  and  me,  but  may  live  in  my  thoughts  only 
as  a new  reason  for  thankfulness  to  Heaven,  and  joy  and 
pride  in  my  brother. 

Such  a look  of  exultation  there  may  be  on  Angels^ 
faces,  when  the  one  repentant  sinner  enters  Heaven, 
among  ninety-nine  just  men.  It  was  not  dimmed  or  tar- 
nished by  the  joyful  tears  that  filled  her  eyes,  but  was 
the  brighter  for  them. 

My  dear  Harriet,'*'  said  Mr.  Morfin,  after  a silence, 
“ I was  not  prepared  for  this.  Do  I understand  you  that 
you  wish  to  make  your  own  part  in  the  inheritance  avail- 
able for  your  good  purpose,  as  well  as  John’s?" 

Oh  yes,"  she  returned.  ''  When  we  have  shared 
everything  together  for  so  long  a time,  and  have  had  no 
care,  hope,  or  purpose  apart,  could  I bear  to  be  excluded 
from  my  share  in  this  ? May  I not  urge  a claim  to  be 
my  brother’s  partner  and  companion  to  the  last?" 

Heaven  forbid  that  I should  dispute  it ! " he  re- 
plied. 

We  may  rely  on  your  friendly  help  ? " she  said.  I 
knew  we  might  ! " 

I should  be  a worse  man  than — than  I hope  I am,  or 
would  willingly  believe  myself,  if  I could  not  give  you 
that  assurance  from  my  heart  and  soul.  You  may,  im- 
plicitly. Upon  my  honour,  I will  keep  your  secret.  And 
if  it  should  be  found  that  Mr.  Dombey  is  so  reduced  as 
I fear  he  will  be,  acting  on  a determination  that  there 
seem  to  be  no  means  of  influencing,  I will  assist  you  to 
accomplish  the  design,  on  which  you  and  John  are 
Jointly  resolved." 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  thanked  him  with  a cor- 
dial, happy  face. 

Harriet,"  he  said,  detaining  it  in  his.  To  speak  to 
you  of  the  worth  of  any  sacrifice  that  you  can  make  now 
— above  all,  of  any  sacrifice  of  mere  money — would  be 
idle  and  presumptuous.  To  put  before  you  any  appeal  to 
reconsider  your  purpose  or  to  set  narrow  limits  to  it. 


532 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


would  be,  I feel,  not  less  so.  I bave  no  right  to  mar  the 
great  end  of  a great  history,  by  any  obtrusion  of  my 
own  weak  self.  I have  every  right  to  bend  my  headbe- 
fore  what  you  confide  to  me,  satisfied  that  it  comes  from 
a higher  and  better  source  of  inspiration  than  my  poor 
worldly  knowledge.  I will  say  only  this,  I am  your  faith- 
ful steward  ; and  I wo  aid  rather  be  so,  and  your  chosen 
friend,  than  I would  be  anybody  in  the  world,  except 
yourself. 

She  thanked  him  again,  cordially,  and  wished  hin\ 
good  nighfc. 

Are  you  going  home?”  he  said.  Let  me  go  with 
you.  ” 

'"Not  to-night.  I am  not  going  home  now  ; 1 have  a 
visit  to  make  alone.  Will  you  come  to-morrow  ? ” 

" Well,  well,”  said  he,  "ril  come  to-morrow.  In  the 
mean  time.  Til  think  of  this,  and  how  we  can  best  pro- 
ceed.  And  perhaps  you'll  think  of  it,  dear  Harriet,  and 
— and — think  of  me  a little  in  connexion  with  it.” 

He  handed  her  down  to  a coach  she  had  in  waiting  at 
the  door ; and  if  his  landlady  had  not  been  deaf,  she 
would  have  heard  him  muttering  as  be  went  back  up- 
stairs,  when  the  coach  had  driven  off,  that  we  were 
creatures  of  habit,  and  it  was  a sorrowful  habit  to  be  an 
old  bachelor. 

The  violoncello  lying  on  the  sofa  between  the  two 
chairs,  he  took  it  up,  without  putting  away  the  vacant 
chair,  and  sat  droning  on  it,  and  slowdy  shaking  his  head 
at  the  vacant  chair,  for  a long,  long  time.  The  expres- 
sion he  communicated  to  the  instrument  at  first,  though 
monstrously  pathetic  and  bland,  was  nothing  to  the  eX' 
pression  he  communicated  to  his  own  face,  and  bestowed 
upon  the  empty  chair  : which  was  so  sincere,  that  he 
was  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  Captain  Cuttle’s  remedy 
inore  than  once,  and  to  rub  his  face  with  his  sleeve.  By 
degrees,  however,  the  violoncello,  in  unison  with  his 
own  frame  of  mind,  glided  melodiously  into  the  Har- 
monious Blacksmith,  which  he  played  over  and  over 
again,  until  his  ruddy  and  serene  face  gleamed  like  true 
metal  on  the  anvil  of  a veritable  blacksmith.  In  fine,  the 
violoncello  and  the  empty  chair  were  the  companions  of 
his  bachelorhood  until  nearly  midnight ; and  when  he 
took  his  supper,  the  violoncello  set  up  on  end  in  the  sofa 
oorner,  big  with  the  latent  harmony  of  a whole  foundry 
full  of  harmonious  blacksmiths,  seemed  to  ogle  the  empty 
chair  out  of  its  crooked  eyes,  with  unutterable  intelli- 
gence. 

When  Harriet  left  the  house,  the  driver  of  her  hired 
coach,  taking  a course  that  was  evidently  no  new  one  to 
him,  went  in  and  out  by  bye- ways,  through  that  part  of 
the  suburbs,  until  he  arrived  at  some  open  ground. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


533 


where  there  were  a few  quiet  little  old  houses  standing 
among  gardens.  At  the  garden-gate  of  one  of  these  he 
stopped,  and  Harriet  alighted. 

Her  gentle  ringing  at  the  hell  was  responded  to  by  a 
dolorous  looking  woman,  of  light  complexion,  with  raised 
eyebrows,  and  head  drooping  on  one  side,  who  curtseyed 
at  sight  of  her,  and  conducted  her  across  the  garden  to 
the  house. 

“ How  is  your  patient,  nurse,  to-night?  said  Harriet. 

“ In  a poor  way,  miss,  I am  afraid.  Oh  how  she  do 
remind  me,  sometimes,  of  my  uncle’s  Betsey  Jane  ! ” re- 
turned the  woman  of  the  light  complexion,  in  a sort  of 
doleful  rapture. 

In  what  respect  ?”  said  Harriet. 

‘‘Miss,  in  alt  respects,”  replied  the  other,  “except 
that  she’s  grown  up,  and  Betsey  Jane,  when  at  death’s 
door,  was  but  a child.” 

“ But  you  have  told  me  she  recovered,”  observed 
Harriet  mildly  ; “so  there  is  the  more  reason  for  hope, 
Mrs.  Wickam.” 

“ Ah,  miss,  hope  is  an  excellent  thing  for  such  as  has 
the  spirits  to  bear  it ! ” said  Mrs.  Wickam,  shaking  her 
head.  “ My  own  spirits  is  not  equal  to  it,  but  I don’t 
owe  it  any  grudge.  I envys  them  that  is  so  blest  !” 

“You  should  try  to  be  more  cheerful,”  remarked 
Harriet. 

“ Thank  you  miss.  I’m  sure,”  said  Mrs.  Wickam 
grimly.  “ If  I was  so  inclined,  the  loneliness  of  this 
situation — you’ll  excuse  my  speaking  so  free— would  put 
it  out  of  my  power,  in  four  and  twenty  hours  ; but  I an’t 
at  all.  I’d  rather  not.  The  little  spirits  that  I ever  had, 
I was  bereaved  of  at  Brighton  some  few  years  ago,  and  I 
think  I feel  myself  the  better  for  it.  ” 

In  truth,  this  was  the  very  Mrs.  Wickam  who  had 
superseded  Mrs.  Richards  as  the  nurse  of  little  Paul,  and 
who  considered  herself  to  have  gained  the  loss  in  ques- 
tion, under  the  roof  of  the  amiable  Pipchin.  The  excel- 
lent and  thoughtful  old  system,  hallowed  by  long  pre- 
scription, which  has  usually  picked  out  from  the  rest  of 
mankind  the  most  dreary  and  uncomfortable  people  that 
could  possibly  be  laid  hold  of,  to  act  as  instructors  of 
youth,  finger-posts  to  the  virtues,  matrons,  monitors, 
attendants  on  sick  beds,  and  the  like,  had  established 
Mrs.  Wickam  in  very  good  business  as  a nurse,  and  had 
led  to  her  serious  qualities  being  particularly  commended 
by  an  admiring  and  numerous  connexion. 

Mrs.  Wickam,  with  her  eyebrows  elevated,  and  her 
head  on  one  side,  lighted  the  way  up-stairs  to  a clean, 
neat  chamber,  opening  on  another  chamber  dimly  lighted, 
where  there  was  a bed.  In  the  first  room,  an  old  woman 
sat  mechanically  staring  out  of  the  open  window,  on  the 


534 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


darkness.  In  tie  second,  stretched  upon  the  bed,  lay  the 
shadow  of  a figure  that  had  spumed  the  wind  and  rain, 
one  wintry  night  ; hardly  to  be  recognised  now,  but  by 
the  long  black  hair,  that  showed  so  very  black  against 
the  colourless  face,  and  all  the  white  things  about  it. 

Oh,  the  strong  eyes  and  the  weak  frame  ! The  eyes 
that  turned  so  eagerly  and  brightly  to  the  door  when 
Harriet  came  in  ; the  feeble  head  that  could  not  raise 
itself,  and  moved  so  slowly  round  upon  its  pillow  ! 

'‘Alice  !”  said  the  visitor’s  mild  voice,  "am  I 2ate  to- 
night ? ” 

" You  always  seem  late,  but  are  always  early." 

Harriet  had  sat  down  by  the  bedside  now,  and  put  h» 
hand  upon  the  thin  hand  lying  there. 

" You  are  better 

Mrs.  Wickam,  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  Ifii©  a 
disconsolate  spectre,  most  decidedly  and  forcibly  shooli 
her  head  to  negative  this  position. 

" It  matters  very  little  ! " said  Alice,  with  a faint 
smile.  " Better  or  worse  to-day,  is  but  a day’s  difference 
— perhaps  not  so  much.’’ 

Mrs.  Wickam,  as  a serious  character,  expressed  her 
approval  with  a groan^;  and  having  made  some  cold 
dabs  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed-clothes,  as  feeling  for  the 
patient’s  feet  and  expecting  to  find  them  stony,  went 
clinking  among  the  medicine  bottles  on  the  table,  as  who 
should  say,  " while  we  are  here,  let  us  repeat  the  mixture 
as  before.” 

"No,”  said  Alice,  whispering  to  her  visitor,  "evil 
courses,  and  remorse,  travel,  want,  and  weather,  storm 
within,  and  storm  without,  have  worn  my  life  away. 
It  will  not  last  much  longer.” 

She  drew  the  hand  up  as  she  spoke,  and  laid  her  faco 
against  it. 

" I lie  here,  sometimes,  thinking  I should  like  to  live 
until  I had  had  a little  time  to  show  you  how  grateful 
I could  be  ! It  is  a weakness,  and  soon  passes.  Better 
for  you  as  it  is.  Better  for  me  ! ” 

How  different  her  hold  u]  on  the  hand,  to  what  it  had 
been  when  she  took  it  by  the  fireside  on  the  bleak  win- 
ter evening  ! Scorn,  rage,  defiance,  recklessness,  look 
here  ! This  is  the  end. 

Mrs.  Wickam  having  clinked  sufficiently  among  the 
bottles,  now  produced  the  mixture.  Mrs.  Wickam  looked 
hard  at  the  patient  in  the  act  of  drinking,  screwed  her 
mouth  up  tight,  her  eyebrows  also,  and  shook  her  head, 
expressing  that  tortures  shouldn’t  make  her  say  it  was  a 
hopeless  case.  Mrs.  Wickam  then  sprinkled  a little 
cooling-stuff  about  the  "room,  with  the  air  of  a female 
grave-digger,  who  was  strewing  ashes  on  ashes,  dust 
on  dust — for  she  was  a serious  character— and  with* 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


535 


drew  to  partake  of  certain  funeral  Baked  meats  down- 
stairs,. 

How  long  is  it”  asked  Alice,  since  I went  to  you 
and  told  you  what  I liad  done,  and  when  you  were  ad- 
vised it  was  too  late  for  any  one  to  follow  ? 

It  is  a year  and  more,''  said  Harriet. 

year  and  more,"  said  Alice,  thoughtfully  intent 
upon  her  face.  Months  upon  months  since  you  brought 
me  here  I " 

Harriet  answered  Yes.'’’ 

Brought  me  here  by  force  of  gentleness  and  kindness. 
Me  ! " said  Alice,  shrinking  with  her  face  behind  the 
hand,  and  made  me  human  by  woman's  looks  and 
words,  and  angel's  deeds  I " 

Harriet  bending  over  her,  composed  and  soothed  her. 
By-and-by  Alice  lying  as  before,  with  the  hand  against 
her  face,  asked  to  have  her  mother  called. 

Harriet  called  to  her  more  than  once  ; but  the  old  wo- 
man was  so  absorbed  looking  out  at  the  open  window  on 
the  darkness,  that  she  did  not  hear.  It  was  not  until 
Harriet  went  to  her  and  touched  her,  that  she  rose  up, 
and  came. 

Mother,"  said  Alice,  taking  the  hand  again,  and  fix- 
ing her  lustrous  eyes  lovingly  upon  her  visitor,  while  she 
merely  addressed  a motion  of  her  finger  to  the  old  woman, 
“ tell  her  what  you  know." 

“ To-night,  my  deary?" 

Ay,  mother,"  answered  Alice,  faintly  and  solemnly, 
'^to-night  !" 

The  old  woman,  whose  wits  appeared  disordered  by 
alarm,  remorse,  or  grie£,  came  creeping  up  along  the  side 
of  the  bed,  opposite  to  that  on  which  Harriet  sat  ; and 
kneeling  down,  so  as  to  bring  her  withered  face  upon 
a level  with  the  coverlet,  and  stretching  out  her  hand, 
so  as  to  touch  her  daughter's  arm,  began  : 

“ My  handsome  gal — " 

Heaven  what  a cry  was  that,  with  which  she  stop- 
ped there,  gazing  at  the  poor  form  lying  on  the  bed  ! 

“ Changed,  long  ago,  mother  ! Withered  long  ago,'* 
said  Alice,  without  looking  at  her.  “ Don't  grieve  for 
that  now." 

— My  daughter,"  faltered  the  old  woman,  my 
who’ll  soon  get  better,  and  shame  'em  all  with  her 
good  looks. " 

Alice  smiled  mournfully  at  Harriet,  and  fondled  her 
hand  a little  closer,  but  said  nothing. 

“ Who'll  soon  get  better,  I say,"  repeated  the  old 
woman,  menacing  the  vacant  air  with  her  shrivelled 
fist,  and  who'll  shame  ’em  all  with  her  good  looks 
— she  will.  I say  she  will  ! she  shall — " as  if  she 
were  in  passionate  contention  with  some  unseen  oppo« 


536 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


nent  at  the  bedside,  who  contradic  .ed  her — my  daugh- 
ter  has  been  turned  away  from,  and  cast  out,  but  she 
could  boast  relationship  to  proud  folks  too,  if  she 
chose.  Ah  ! • To  proud  folks ! There's  relationship 
without  your  clergy  and  your  wedding-rings — they 
may  make  it,  but  they  can't  break  it — and  my  daugh- 
ter's well  related.  Show  me  Mrs.  Dombey,  and  I'll 
show  you  my  Alice's  first  cousin." 

Harriet  glanced  from  the  old  woman  to  the  lustrous 
eyes  intent  upon  her  and  derived  corroboration 

from  them. 

What  ! " crie^d  the  old  woman,  her  nodding  head 
bridling  with  a ghastly  vanity  ; though  I am  old  and 
ugly  now, — much  older  by  life  and  habit  than  years 
though, — I was  once  as  young  as  any.  Ah  ! as  pretty 
too,  as  many  ! I was  a fresh  country  wench  in  my  time, 
darling,"  stretching  out  her  arm  to  Harriet,  across  the 
bed,  and  looked  it,  too.  Down  in  my  country,  Mrs. 
Dombey's  father  and  his  brother  were  the  gayest  gentle- 
men and  the  best- liked  that  came  a visiting  from  Lon- 
don — they  have  long  been  dead,  though  ! Lord,  Lord, 
this  long  while  ! The  brother,  who  is  my  Ally's  father, 
longest  of  the  two." 

She  raised  her  head  a little,  and  peered  at  her  daugh- 
ter's face  ; as  from  the  remembrance  of  her  own  youth, 
she  had  flown  to  the  remembrance  of  her  child's.  Then 
suddenly,  she  laid  her  face  down  on  the  bed,  and  shut 
her  head  up  in  her  hands  and  arms. 

They  were  as  like,"  said  the  old  woman,  without 
looking  up,  ""  as  you  could  see  two  brothers,  so  near  an 
age — there  wasn't  much  more  than  a year  between  them, 
as  I recollect — and  if  you  could  have  seen  my  gal,  as  I 
have  seen  her  once,  side  by  side  with  the  other's  daugh- 
ter, you'd  have  seen,  for  all  the  difference  of  dress  and 
life,  that  they  were  like  each  other.  Oh  ! is  the  likeness 
gone  and  is  it  my  gal — only  my  gal  that's  to  change 
so  ! " 

‘'We  shall  all  change,  mother,  in  our  turn,"  said  Alice. 

“ Turn  ! " cried  the  old  woman,  “ but  why  not  hers  as 
soon  as  my  gal's  ! The  mother  must  have  changed — she 
looked  as  old  as  me,  and  full  as  wrinkled  through  her 
paint — but  sAe  was  handsome.  What  have  I done,  I, 
what  have  I done  worse  than  her,  that  only  my  gal  is  to 
lie  there  fading  ! " 

With  another  o{.  those  wild  cries,  she  went  running 
out  into  the  room  from  which  she  had  come  ; but  im- 
mediately, in  her  uncertain  mood,  returned,  and  creep- 
ing up  to  Harriet,  said  : 

“ That's  what  Alice  bade  me  tell  you,  deary.  That's 
all.  I found  it  out  when  I began  to  ask  who  she  was, 
and  all  about  her,  away  in  Warwickshire  there,  one 


BOMBEY  AND  SON. 


5B7 


summer  time.  Such  relations  was  no  good  to  me,  tlien. 
They  wouldn’t  have  owned  me,  and  had  nothing  to  give 
me.  I should  have  asked  ’em,  may  be,  for  a little 
money,  afterwards,  if  it  hadn’t  been  for  my  Alice  ; she’d 
a’most  have  killed  me,  if  I had,  I think.  She  was  as 
proud  as  t’other  in  her  way/’  said  the  old  woman,  touch- 
ing the  face  of  her  daughter  fearfully,  and  withdrawing 
her  hand,  for  all  she’s  so  quiet  now  ; but  she’ll  shame 
’em  with  her  good  looks  yet.  Ha,  ha  I BUe'll  shame  ’em, 
will  my  handsome  daughter  ! ” 

Her  laugh,  as  she  retreated,  was  worse  than  her  cry  ; 
worse  than  the  burst  of  imbecile  lamentation  in  which  it 
ended  ; worse  than  the  doting  air  with  which  she  sat 
down  in  her  old  seat,  and  ^ared  out  at  the  darkness. 

The  eyes  of  Alice  had  all  this  time  been  fixed  on  Har- 
riet, whose  hand  she  had  never  released.  She  said 
now  ; 

I have  felt,  lying  here,  that  I should  like  you  to 
know  this.  It  might  explain,  I have  thought,  something 
that  used  to  help  to  harden  me.  I have  heard  so  much, 
m my  wrong-doing,  of  my  neglected  duty,  that  I took 
iip  with  the  belief  that  duty  had  not  been  done  to  me^ 
and  that  as  the  seed  was  sown,  the  harvest  grew, 
somehow  made  it  out  that  when  ladies  had  bad  homes 
and  mothers,  they  went  wrong  in  their  way,  too  ; but 
that  their  way  was  not  so  foul  a one  as  mine,  and  they 
had  need  to  bless  God  for  it.  That  is  all  past.  It  is 
like  a dream,  now,  which  I cannot  quite  remember  or 
understand.  It  has  been  more  and  more  like  a dream, 
every  day,  since  you  began  to  sit  here,  and  to  read  to  me. 
I only  tell  it  you,  as  I can  recollect  it.  Will  you  read  tO 
me  a little  more  ? ” 

Harriet  was  withdrawing  her  hand  to  open  the  book 
when  Alice  detained  it  for  a moment. 

You  will  not  forget  my  mother?  I forgive  her,  if  I 
have  any  cause.  I know  that  she  forgives  me,  and  is 
sorry  in  her  heart.  You  will  not  forget  her  ? ” 

Never,  Alice  ! ” 

A moment  yet.  Lay  my  head  so,  dear,  that  as  you 
read,  I may  see  the  words  in  your  kind  face.” 

Harriet  complied  and  read — read  the  eternal  book  for 
all  the  weary  and  the  heavy-laden  ; for  all  the  wretched, 
fallen,  and  neglected  of  this  earth — read  the  blessed 
history,  in  which  the  blind,  lame,  palsied  beggar,  the 
criminal,  the  woman  stained  with  shame,  the  shunned 
of  all  our  dainty  clay,  has  each  a portion,  that  no  human 
pride,  indifference,  or  sophistry  through  all  the  ages  that 
this  world  shall  last,  can  take  away,  or  by  the  thousandth 
atom  of  a grain  reduce — read  the  ministry  of  Him,  who, 
through  the  round  of  human  life,  and  all  its  hopes  and 
griefs,  from  birth  to  death,  from  infancy  to  age,  had 


538 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS 


sweet  compassion  for,  and  interest  in,  its  every  scene 
and  stage,  its  every  suffering  and  sorrow. 

I sliall  come,'"  said  Harriet,  wlien  site  shut  the 
booh,  very  early  in  the  morning.” 

The  lustrous  eyes,  yet  fixed  upon  her  face,  closed  for 
a moment,  then  opened  ; and  Alice  kissed  and  blessed 
her. 

The  same  eyes  followed  her  to  the  door  ; and  in  their 
light,  and  on  the  tranquil  face,  there  was  a smile  when 
it  was  closed. 

They  never  turned  away.  She  laid  her  hand  up<m 
her  breast,  murmuring  the  sacred  name  that  had  been 
read  to  her  ; and  life  passed  from  her  face,  like  light  r®. 
moved. 

Nothing  lay  there,  any  longer,  but  the  ruin  of  th«s 
mortal  house  on  which  the  rain  had  beaten,  and  the 
black  hair  that  had  fluttered  in  the  wintry  wind. 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

Betribution. 

Changes  have  come  again  upon  the  great  house  in 
the  long  dull  street,  once  the  scene  of  Florence's  child^ 
hood  and  loneliness.  It  is  a great  house  still,  proof 
against  wind  and  weather,  without  breaches  in  the  roof, 
or  shattered  windows,  or  dilapidated  walls ; but  it  is  a 
ruin  none  the  less,  and  the  rats  fly  from  it. 

Mr.  Towlinson  and  company  are,  at  first,  incredulous 
in  respect  of  the  shapeless  rumours  that  they  hear.  Cook 
says  our  people's  credit  ain't  so  easy  shook  as  that  comes 
to,  thank  God  ; and  Mr.  Towlinson  expects  to  hear  it 
reported  next,  that  the  Bank  of  England's  a going  to 
break,  or  the  jewels  in  the  Tower  to  be  sold  up.  But, 
next  come  the  Gazette,  and  Mr.  Perch  : and  Mr.  Perch 
brings  Mrs.  Perch  to  talk  it  over  in  the  kitchen,  and  to 
spend  a pleasant  evening. 

As  soon  as  there  is  no  doubt  about  it,  Mr.  Towlinson's 
main  anxiety  is  that  the  failure  should  be  a good  round 
one — not  less  than  a hundred  thousand  pound.  Mr. 
Perch  don't  think  himself  that  a hundred  thousand 
pound  will  nearly  cover  it.  The  women,  led  by  Mrs. 
Perch  and  cook,  often  repeat  a hun-dred  tliou-sand 
pound!"  with  awful  satisfaction — as  if  handling  the 
words  were  like  handling  the  money  ; and  the  house- 
maid, who  has  her  eye  on  Mr.  Towlinson,  wishes  she 
had  only  a hundredth  part  of  the  sum  to  bestow  on  the 
man  of  her  choice.  Mr.  Towlinson,  still  mindful  of  his 
old  wrongs,  opines  that  a foreigner  would  hardly  know 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


539 


wliat  to  Go  with  so  much  money,  unless  he  spent  it  on 
his  whiskers  ; which  bitter  sarcasm  causes  the  house- 
maid to  withdraw  in  tears. 

But  not  to  remain  long  absent ; for  cook,  who  has  the 
reputation  of  being  extremely  good-hearted,  says  what- 
ever they  do,  let  'em  stand  by  one  another  now,  Towlin- 
son,  for  there’s  no  telling  how  soon  they  may  be  divided. 
They  have  been  in  that  house  (says  cook)  through  a 
funeral,  a wedding,  and  a run-away ; and  let  it  not 
be  said  that  they  couldn’t  agree  among  themselves  at 
such  a time  as  the  present.  Mrs.  Perch  is  immensely 
affected  by  this  moving  address,  and  openly  remarks  that 
cook  is  an  angel.  Mr.  To wlinson  replies  to  cook,  far  be  it 
from  him  to  stand  in  the  way  of  that  good  feeling  which 
he  could  wish  to  see  ; and  adjourning  in  quest  of  the 
house-maid,  and  presently  returning  with  that  young 
lady  on  his  arm,  informs  the  kitchen  that  foreigners  is 
only  his  fun,  and  that  him  and  Anne  have  now  resolved 
to  take  one  another  for  better  for  worse,  and  to  settle  in 
Oxford  Market  in  the  general-  green  grocery  and  herb 
and  leech  line,  where  your  kind  favours  is  particular  re- 
quested. This  announcement  is  received  with  acclama- 
tion ; and  Mrs.  Perch,  projecting  her  soul  into  futurity, 
says,  ''girls,”  in  cook’s  ear,  in  a solemn  whisper. 

Misfortune  in  the  family  without  feasting,  in  these 
lower  regions,  couldn’t  be.  Therefore  cook  tosses  up  a 
hot  dish  or  tw^o  for  supper,  and  Mr.  Towlinson  com- 
pounds a lobster  salad  to  be  devoted  to  the  same  hospi- 
table purpose.  Even  Mrs.  Pipchin,  agitated  by  the 
occasion,  rings  her  bell,  and  sends  down  word  that  she 
requests  to  have  that  little  bit  of  sweet  bread  that  was 
left,  v/armed  up  for  her  supper,  and  sent  to  her  on  a tray 
with  about  a quarter  of  a tumbler-full  of  mulled  sherry ; 
for  she  feels  poorly. 

There  is  a little  talk  about  Mr.  Dombey,  but  very 
little.  It  is  chiefly  speculation  as  to  how  long  he  has 
known  that  this  was  going  to  happen.  Cook  says 
shrewdly,  " Oh  a long  time,  bless  you  ! Take  your  oath 
of  that.”  And  reference  being  made  to  Mr.  Perch  he 
confirms  her  view  of  the  case.  Somebody  wonders  what 
he’ll  do,  and  whether  he’ll  go  out  in  any  situation.  Mr. 
Towlinson  thinks  not,  and  hints  at  a refuge  in  one  of 
them  g m-teel  almshouses  of  the  better  kind.  "Ah! 
where  he’ll  have  his  little  garden  you  know,”  says  cook 
plaintively,  " and  bring  up  sweet -peas  in  the  spring.” 
" Exactly  so,”  says  Mr.  Towlinson,  "and  be  one  of  the 
Brethren  of  something  or  another.”  "We  are  all  Breth- 
ren,” says  Mrs.  Perch,  in  a pause  of  her  drink.  "Ex- 
cept the  sisters,”  says  Mr.  Perch,  "How are  the  mighty 
fallen  !”  remarks  cook.  " Pride  shall  have  a fall,  and 


540 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


it  always  was  and  will  be  so!’’  observes  tbe  bouse - 
maid. 

It  is  wonderful  how  good  they  feel,  in  making  these 
reflections  ; and  what  a Christian  unanimity  they  are 
sensible  of,  in  bearing  the  common  shock  with  resignation. 
There  is  only  one  interruption  to  this  excellent  state  of 
mind,  which  is  occasioned  by  a young  kitchen-maid  of 
inferior  rank — in  black  stockings — who,  having  sat  with 
her  mouth  open  for  a long  time,  unexpectedly  discharges 
from  it  words  to  this  effect,  Suppose  the  wages  shouldn’t 
be  paid  ! ” The  company  sit  for  a moment  speechless  ; 
but  cook  recovering  first,  turns  upon  the  young  woman, 
and  requests  to  know  how  she  dares  insult  the  family, 
whose  bread  she  eats,  by  such  a dishonest  supposition,  and 
whether  she  thinks  that  anybody,  with  a scrap  of  honour 
left,  could  deprive  poor  servants  of  their  pittance  ? Be- 
cause if  that  is  your  religious  feelings,  Mary  Daws,”  says 
cook,  warmly,  I don’t  know  where  you  mean  to  go  to.” 

Mr.  Towlinson  don’t  know  either  ; nor  anybody  ; and 
the  young  kitchen-maid,  appearing  not  to  know  exactly, 
herself,  and  scouted  by  the  general  voice,  is  covered 
with  confusion,  as  with  a garment. 

After  a few  days  strange  people  begin  to  call  at  the 
house,  and  to  make  appointments  with  one  another  in  the 
dining-room,  as  if  they  lived  there.  Especially,  there  is 
a gentleman,  of  a Mosaic  Arabian  cast  of  countenance, 
with  a very  massive  watch-guard,  who  whistles  in.  the 
drawing-room,  and,  while  he  is  waiting  for  the  other 
gentleman,  who  always  has  pen  and  ink  in  his  pocket, 
asks  Mr.  Towlinson  (by  the  easy  name  of  “Old  Cock,”) 
if  he  happens  to  know  what  the  figure  of  them  crimson 
and  gold  hangings  might  have  been,  when  new  bought. 
The  callers  and  appointments  in  the  dining-room  become 
more  numerous  every  day,  and  every  gentleman  seems 
to  have  pen  and  ink  in  his  pocket,  and  to  have  some 
occasion  to  use  it.  At  last  it  is  said  that  there  is  going 
to  be  a Sale  ; and  then  more  people  arrive,  with  pen  and 
ink  in  their  pockets,  commanding  a detachment  of  men 
with  carpet  caps,  who  immediately  begin  to  pull  up  the 
carpets,  and  knock  the  furniture  about,  and  to  print  oft 
thousands  of  impressions  of  their  shoes  upon  the  hall  and 
staircase. 

The  council  downi-stairs  are  in  full  conclave  all  this 
time,  and,  having  nothing  to  do,  perform  perfect  feats  of 
eating.  At  length  they  are  one  day  summoned  in  a body 
to  Mrs.  Pipchin’s  room,  and  thus  addressed  by  the  fair 
Peru^an  : 

“Your  master’s  in  difiiculties,”  says  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
tartly.  “ You  know  that,  I suppose  ?” 

Mr.  Towlinson,  as  spokesman,  admits  a general  knowl» 
edge  of  the  fact. 


MRS.  PIPCHIN,  IT  IS,”  REPLIES  COOK,  ADVANCING. 


542 


WOKKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


''  And  you’re  all  on  the  look-out  for  yourselves,  I war^ 
rant  you,”  says  Mrs.  Pipcliin,  shaking  her  head  at  them. 

A shrill  voice  from  the  rear  exclaims,  ‘'No  more  than 
yourself  ! ” 

“That’s  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Impudence,  is  it?”  says 
the  ireful  Pipchin,  looking  with  a fiery  eye  over  the  im 
termediate  heads. 

“Yes,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  it  is,”  replies  cook,  advancing. 
“ And  what  then,  pray  ? ” 

“Why,  then  you  may  go  as  soon  as  you  like,”  says 
Mrs.  Pipchin.  “The  sooner  the  better,  and  I hope  I 
shall  never  see  your  face  again.” 

With  this  the  doughty  Pipchin  produces  a canvas 
bag  ; and  tells  her  wages  out  to  that  day,  and  a month 
beyond  it,  and  clutches  the  money  tight,  until  a receipt 
for  the  same  is  duly  signed,  to  the  last  up-stroke  ; when 
she  grudgingly  lets  it  go.  This  form  of  proceeding  Mrs. 
Pipchin  repeats  with  every  member  of  the  household, 
until  all  are  paid. 

“ Now  those  that  choose,  can  go  about  their  business,” 
says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  “ and  those  that  choose  can  stay  here 
on  board  wages  for  a week  or  so,  and  make  themselves 
useful.  Except,”  says  the  inflammable  Pipchin,  “that 
slut  of  a cook,  who’ll  go  immediately.  ” 

“That,”  says  cook,  “she  certainly  will ! I wish  you 
good-day,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  sincerely  wish  I could  com- 
pliment you  on  the  sweetness  of  your  appearance  ! ” 

“ Get  along  with  you,”  says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  stamping 
her  foot. 

Cook  sails  off  with  an  air  of  beneficent  dignity,  highly 
exasperating  to  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  is  shortly  joined  be- 
low stairs  by  the  rest  of  the  confederation. 

Mr.  Towlinson  then  says,  that,  in  the  first  place,  he 
would  beg  to  propose  a little  snack  of  something  to  eat ; 
and  over  that  snack  would  desire  to  offer  a suggestion 
which  he  thinks  will  meet  the  position  in  whicli  they 
find  themselves.  The  refreshment  being  produced,  and 
very  heartily  partaken  of,  Mr.  Towlinson’s  suggestion  is, 
in  effect,  that  cook  is  going,  and  that  if  we  are  not  true 
to  ourselves,  nobody  will  be  true  to  us.  That  they  have 
lived  in  that  house  a long  time,  and  exerted  themselves 
very  much  to  be  sociable  together.  (At  this,  cook  says, 
with  emotion,  “ Hear,  hear  ! ” and  Mrs.  Perch,  who  is 
there  again,  and  full  to  the  throat,  sheds  tears.)  And 
that  he  thinks,  at  the  present  time,  the  feeling  ought  to 
be  “ Go  one,  go  all  ! ” The  housemaid  is  much  affected 
by  this  generous  sentiment,  and  warmly  seconds  it. 
Cook  says  she  feels  it’s  right,  and  only  hopes  it’s  not 
done  as  a compliment  to  her,  but  from  a sense  of  duty. 
Mr.  Towlinson  replies,  from  a sense  of  duty  ; and  that 
now  he  is  driven  to  express  his  opinions,  he  will  openly 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


543 


say,  that  he  dr.es  not  think  it  over-respec table  to  remain 
in  a house  where  Sales  and  such  like  are  carrying  for- 
wards. The  housemaid  is  sure  of  it ; and  relates,  in 
confirmation,  that  a strange  man,  in  a carpet  cap,  offered, 
this  very  morning,  to  kiss  her  on  the  stairs.  Hereupon, 
Mr.  Towlinson  is  starting  from  his  chair,  to  seek  and 

smash  ’’  the  offender  ; vrhen  he  is  laid  hold  on  by  the 
ladies,  who  beseech  him  to  calm  himself,  and  to  reflect 
that  it  is  easier  and  wiser  to  leave  the  scene  of  such  in- 
decencies at  once.  Mrs.  Perch,  presenting  the  case  in  a 
new  light,  even  shows  that  delicacy  towards  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  shut  up  in  his  own  rooms,  imperatively  demands 
precipitate  retreat.  For  what/’  says  the  good  woman, 

must  his  feelings  be,  if  he  was  to  come  upon  any  of 
the  poor  servants  that  he  once  deceived  into  thinking 
him  immensely  rich  I ” Cook  is  so  struck  by  this  moral 
consideration,,  that  Mrs.  Perch  improves  it  with  several 
pious  axioms,  original  and  selected.  It  becomes  a clear 
case  that  they  must  all  go.  Boxes  are  packed,  cabs 
fetched,  and  at  dusk  that  evening  there  is  not  one  mem- 
ber of  the  party  left. 

The  house  stands,  large  and  weather-proof,  in  the  long 
dull  street ; but  it  is  a ruin,  and  the  rats  fly  from  it. 

The  men  in  the  carpet  caps  go  on  tumbling  the  furni- 
ture about ; and  the  gentlemen  with  the  pens  and  ink 
make  out  inventories  of  it,  and  sit  upon  pieces  of  furni- 
ture never  made  to  be  sat  upon,  and  eat  bread  and  cheese 
from  the  public-house  on  other  pieces  of  furniture  never 
made  to  be  eaten  on,  and  seem  to  have  a delight  in  ap- 
propriating precious  articles  to  strange  uses.  Chaotic 
combinations  of  furniture  also  take  place.  Mattresses 
and  bedding  appear  in  the  dining-room  ; the  glass  and 
china  get  into  the  conservatory  fthe  great  dinner  service 
is  set  out  in  heaps  on  the  long  divan  in  the  large  drawing- 
room ,*  and  the  stair- wires,  made  into  fasces,  decorate  the 
marble  chimney-pieces.  Finally,  a rug,  with  a printed 
bill  upon  it,  is  hung  out  from  the  balcony  ; and  a similar 
appendage  graces  either  side  of  the  hall  door. 

Then,  all  day  long,  there  is  a retinue  of  mouldy  gigs 
and  chaise-carts  in  the  streets  ; and  herds  of  shabby  vam- 
pires, Jew  and  Christian,  over-run  the  house,  sounding 
the  plate-glass  mirrors  with  their  knuckles,  striking  dis- 
cordant octaves  on  the  grand  piano,  drawing  wet  forefin- 
gers over  the  pictures,  breathing  on  the  blades  of  the 
best  dinner-knives,  punching  the  squabs  of  chairs  and 
sofas  with  their  dirty  fists,  touzling  the  feather-beds, 
opening  and  shutting  all  the  drawers,  balancing  the  silver 
spoons  and  forks,  looking  into  the  very  threads  of  the 
drapery  and  linen,  and  disparaging  everything.  There 
is  not  a secret  place  in  the  whole  house.  Fluffy  and 
snuffy  strangers  stare  into  the  kitchen  range  as  curiously 


544 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


as  mto  tlie  attic  clotlies- press.  Stout  men  with  napless 
hats  on,  look  out  of  the  bed- room  windows,  and  cut  jokes 
with  friends  in  the  street.  Quiet,  calculating  spirits 
withdraw  into  the  dressing-rooms  with  catalogues,  and 
make  marginal  notes  thereon,  with  stumps  of  pencils. 
Two  brokers  invade  the  very  fire-escape,  and  take  a pan- 
oramic survey  of  the  neighbourhood  from  the  top  of  the 
house.  The  swarm  and  buzz,  and  going  up  and  down, 
endure  for  days.  The  Capital  Modern  Household  Furni-^ 
ture,  &c.,  is  on  view. 

Then  there  is  a palisade  of  tables  made  in  the  best 
drawing-room  ; and  on  the  c'Spital,  french-polished,  ex- 
tending, telescopic  range  of  Spanish  mahogany  dining- 
tables  with  turned  legs,  the  pulpit  of  the  Auctioneer  is 
erected  ; and  the  herds  of  shabby  vampires,  Jew  and 
Christian,  the  strangers  fluify  and  snuffy,  and  the  stout 
men  with  the  napless  hats,  congregate  about  it  and  sit 
upon  everything  within  reach,  mantel-pieces  included, 
and  begin  to  bid.  Hot,  humming,  and  dusty,  are  the 
rooms  all  day  ; and — high  above  the  heat,  hum,  and  dust 
— the  head  and  shoulders,  voice  and  hammer,  of  the  Auc- 
tioneer, are  ever  at  work.  The  men  in  the  carpet  caps 
get  flustered  and  vicious,  with  tumbling  the  Lots  about, 
and  still  the  lots  are  going,  going,  gone  ; still  coming  on. 
Sometimes  there  is  joking  and  a general  roar.  This  lasts 
l;ll  day  and  three  days  following.  The  Capital  Modern 
Household  Furniture,  &c.,  is  on  sale. 

Then  the  mouldy  gigs  and  chaise-carts  re-appear  ; and 
with  them  come  spring- vans  and  waggons,  and  an  army 
j)f  porters  with  knots.  All  day  long,  the  men  with 
carpet  caps  are  screwing  at  screw- drivers  and  bed- 
winches,  or  staggering  by  the  dozen  together  on  the  stair- 
case under  heavy  burdens,  or  upheaving  perfect  rocks  of 
Spanish  mahogany,  best  rosewood,  or  plate-glass,  into 
the  gigs  and  chaise-  carts,  vans  and  waggons.  All  sorts 
of  vehicles  of  burden  are  in  attendance,  from  a tilted 
waggon  to  a wheel -barrow.  Poor  Paul’s  little  bedstead 
is  carried  off  in  a donkey-tandem.  For  nearly  a whole 
week  the  Capital  Modern  Household  Furniture,  &c.,  is  in 
course  of  removal. 

At  last  it  is  all  gone.  Nothing  is  left  about  the  house 
but  scattered  leaves  of  catalogues,  littered  scraps  of  straw 
and  hay,  and  a battery  of  pewter  pots  behind  the  hall 
door.  The  men  with  the  carpet  caps  gather  up  their 
screw -drivers  and  bed- winches  into  bags,  shoulder  them, 
f,nd  walk  off.  One  of  the  pen  and  ink  gentlemen  goes 
over  the  house  as  a last  attention  ; sticking  up  bills  ir* 
the  windows  respecting  the  lease  of  this  desirable  family 
mansion,  and  shutting  the  shutters.  At  length  he  follows 
the  men  with  the  carpet  caps.  None  of  the  invaders 
semain.  The  house  is  a ruin,  and  the  rats  fly  from  it. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


545 


Mrs.  Pipcliin’s  apartments,  together  with  those  locked 
rooms  on  the  ground  floor  where  the  window-blinds  are 
drawn  down  close,  have  been  spared  the  general  devas- 
tation. Mrs.  Pipchin  has  remained  austere  and  stony 
during  the  proceedings,  in  her  own  room  ; or  has  occa- 
sionally looked  in  at  the  sale  to  see  what  the  goods  are 
fetching,  and  to  bid  for  one  particular  easy  chair.  Mrs. 
Pipchin  has  been  the  highest  bidder  for  the  easy  chair, 
and  sits  upon  her  property  when  Mrs.  Chick  comes  to  see 
her. 

“How  is  my  brother,  Mrs.  Pipchin ? ’’  says  Mrs.  Chick. 

“ I don’t  knov/  any  more  than  the  deuce,”  says  Mrs. 
Pipchin.  “ He  never  does  me  the  honour  to  speak  to  me. 
He  has  his  meat  and  drink  put  in  the  next  room  to  his 
own  ; and  what  he  takes,  he  comes  out  and  takes  when 
there’s  nobody  there.  It’s  no  use  asking  me.  I know  no 
more  about  him  than  the  man  in  th^  south  who  burnt 
his  mouth  by  eating  cold  plum  porridge.” 

This  the  acrimonious  Pipchin  says  with  a flounce. 

“But  good  gracious  me  !”  cried  Mrs.  Chick  blandly, 
“ How  long  is  this  to  last  ! If  my  brother  will  not  make 
an  effort,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  what  is  to  become  of  him  ? I am 
sure  i should  have  thought  he  had  seen  enough  of  the 
consequences  of  not  making  an  effort,  by  this  time,  to  be 
warned  against  that  fatal  error.” 

“ Hoity  toity  ! ” says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  rubbing  her  nose. 
“ There’s  a great  fuss,  I think,  about  it.  It  ain’t  so 
wonderful  a case.  People  have  had  misfortunes  before 
now,  and  been  obliged  to  part  with  their  furniture.  I’m 
sure  / have  !” 

“ My  brother,”  pursues  Mrs.  Chick  profoundly,  is 
so  peculiar — so  strange  a man.  He  is  the  most  peculiar 
man  1 ever  saw.  Would  any  one  believe  that  when  he  re- 
ceived news  of  the  marriage  and  emigration  of  that  un- 
natural child — it’s  a comfort  to  me,  now,  to  remember 
that  I always  said  there  was  something  extraordinary 
about  that  child  ; but  nobody  minds  me — would  anybody 
believe,  I say,  that  he  should  then  turn  round  upon  me 
and  say  he  had  supposed,  from  my  manner,  that  she  had 
come  to  my  house  r Why,  my  gracious  ! And  would 
anybody  believe  that  when  I merely  say  to  him  ' Paul, 
I may  be  very  foolish,  and  I have  no  doubt  I am,  but  I 
cannot  understand  how  your  affairs  can  have  got  into  this 
state,’  he  should  actually  fly  at  me,  and  request  that  I 
will  come  to  see  him  no  more  until  he  asks  me  ! Why, 
my  goodness  I ” 

“ Ah  ! ” says  Mrs.  Pipchin.  “ It’s  a pity  he  hadn’t  a 
little  more  to  do  with  mines.  They’d  have  tried  his  tem- 
per for  him.  ” 

“And  what,”  resumes  Mrs.  Chick,  quite  regardless  of 
Mrs.  Pipchin’s  observations,  “is  it  to  end  in?  That’f 


546 


WOKKS  OF  CHAIILES  DICKENS. 


wliat  I want  to  know.  What  does  my  brother  mean  to 
do?  He  must  do  something.  It’s  of  no  use  remaining 
shut  up  in  his  own  rooms.  Business  won’t  come  to  him. 
No.  He  must  go  to  it.  Then  why  don’t  he  go  ! He 
knows  where  to  go,  I suppose,  having  been  a man  of 
business  all  his  life.  Very  good.  Then  why  not  go 
there  ?” 

Mrs.  Chick,  after  forging  this  powerful  chain  of  rea- 
soning, remains  silent  for  a minute  to  admire  it. 

Besides,”  says  the  discreet  lady,  with  an  argumenta- 
tive air,  who  ever  heard  of  such  obstinacy  as  his  staying 
-shut  up  here  through  all  these  dreadful  disagreeables  ? 
It’s  not  as  if  there  was  no  place  for  him  to  go  to.  Of 
course,  he  could  have  come  to  our  house.  He  knows 
he  is  at  home  there,  I suppose  ? Mr.  Chick  has  perfectly 
bored  about  it,  and  I said  with  my  own  lips,  'Why, 
surely,  Paul,  you  don’t  imagine  that  because  your  affairs 
have  got  into  this  state,  you  are  the  less  at  home  to  such 
near  relatives  as  ourselves?  You  don’t  imagine  that  we 
are  like  the  rest  of  the  world  ? ’ But  no  ; here  he  stays 
all  through,  and  here  he  is.  Why,  good  gracious  me, 
suppose  the  house  was  to  be  let  ! what  would  he  do 
then  ? He  couldn’t  remain  here,  then.  If  he  attempted 
to  do  so,  there  would  be  an  ejectment,  an  action  for  Doe, 
and  all  sorts  of  things ; and  then  he  must  go.  Then 
why  not  go  at  first  instead  of  at  last  ? And  that  brings 
me  back  to  what  I said  just  now,  and  1 naturally  ask 
what  is  to  be  the  end  of  it  ? ” 

" I know  what’s  to  be  the  end  of  it,  as  far  as  I am 
concerned,”  replies  Mrs.  Pipchin,  " and  that’s  enough 
for  me.  I’m  going  to  take  myself  off  in  a jiffy.” 

'‘In  a which,  Mrs.  Pipchin?”  says  Mrs.  Chick. 

"In  a jiffy,”  retorts  Mrs.  Pipchin  sharply. 

"Ah,  well ! really  I can’t  blame  you,  Mrs.  Pipchin,” 
says  Mrs.  Chick  with  frankness. 

" It  would  be  pretty  much  the  same  to  me,  if  you 
could,”  replies  the  sardonic  Pipchin.  "At  any  rate  I’m 
going.  I can’t  stop  here.  I should  be  dead  in  a week. 
I had  to  cook  my  own  pork  chop  yesterday,  and  I’m  not 
used  to  it.  My  constitution  will  be  giving  waty  next. 
Besides  I had  a very  fair  connexion  at  Brighton  when  I 
came  here — little  Pankey’s  folks  alone  were  worth  a 
good  eighty  pounds  a-year  to  me — and  I can’t  afford  to 
throw  it  away.  I’ve  written  to  my  niece,  and  she  ex- 
pects me  by  this  time.” 

"Have  you  spoken  to  my  brother?”  inquires  Mrs, 
Chick. 

" Oh,  yes,  it’s  very  easy  to  say  speak  to  him,”  retorts 
Mrs.  Pipchin.  " How  is  it  done  I I called  out  to  him 
yesterday,  that  I was  no  use  here,  and  that  he  had  better 
let  me  send  for  Mrs.  Richards.  He  grunted  something 


DOMBEY  AND  SON, 


547 


or  other  that  meant  yes,  and  I sent.  Grunt  indeed  ! If 
he  had  been  Mr.  Pipchin,  he’d  have  had  some  reason  to 
grunt.  Yah  ! Tve  no  patience  with  it  I ” 

Here  this  exemplary  female,  who  had  pumped  up  so 
much  fortitude  and  virtue  from  the  depths  of  the  Peru- 
vian mines,  rises  from  her  cushioned  property  to  see 
Mrs.  Chick  to  the  door.  Mrs.  Chick,  deploring  to  the 
last  the  peculiar  character  of  her  brother,  noiselessly  re- 
tires, much  occupied  with  her  own  sagacity  and  clear- 
ness of  head. 

In  the  dusk  of  the  evening  Mr.  Toodle,  being  off  duty, 
arrives  with  Polly  and  a box,  and.  leaves  them,  with  a 
sounding  kiss,  in  the  hall  of  the  empty  house,  the  retired 
character  of  which  affects  Mr.  Toodle’s  spirits  strong- 
iy. 

‘‘  I tell  you  what,  Polly  my  dear,”  says  Mr.  Toodle, 
‘‘  Being  now,  an  ingein-driver  and  well  to  do  in  the 
world,  I shouldn’t  allow  of  your  coming  here,  to  be  made 
dull  like,  if  it  warn’t  for  favours  past.  But  favours 
past,  Polly,  is  never  to  be  forgot.  To  them  which  is  in 
adversity,  besides,  your  face  is  a cord’l.  So  let’s  have 
another  kiss  on  it,  my  dear.  You  wish  no  better  than 
to  do  a right  act,  I know ; and  my  views  is,  that  it’s 
right  and  dutiful  to  do  this.  Good  night,  Polly  ! ” 

Mrs.  Pipchin  by  this  time  looms  dark  in  her  black 
bombazeen  skirts,  black  bonnet,  and  shawl  ; and  has  her 
personal  property  packed  up ; and  has  her  chair  (late  a 
favourite  chair  of  Mr.  Dombey’s,  and  the  dead  bargain  of 
the  sale)  ready  near  the  street  door  ; and  is  only  waiting 
for  a fly  van,  going  to-night  to  Brighton  on  private  service, 
which  is  to  call  for  her,  by  private  contract,  and  convey 
her  home. 

Presently  it  comes.  Mrs.  Pipchin’s  wardrobe  being 
handed  in  and  stowed  away,  Mrs.  Pipchin’s  chair  is  next 
handed  in,  and  placed  in  a convenient  corner  among  cer- 
tain trusses  of  hay  ; it  being  the  intention  of  the  amiable 
woman  to  occupy  the  chair  during  her  journey.  Mrs. 
Pipchin  herself  is  next  handed  in,  and  grimly  takes  her 
seat,  .yhere  is  a snaky  gleam  in  her  hard  gray  eye,  as 
of  anticipated  rounds  of  buttered  toast,  relays  of  hot 
chops,  worryings  and  quellings  of  young  children,  sharp 
snappings  at  poor  Berry,  and  all  the  other  delights  of 
her  Ogress’s  castle.  Mrs.  Pipchin  almost  laughs  as  the 
fly  van  drives  off,  and  she  composes  her  black  bombazeen 
skirts,  and  settles  herself  among  the  cushions  of  her 
easy  chair. 

The  house  is  such  a ruin  that  the  rats  have  fled,  and 
there  is  not  one  left. 

But  Pollyj  though  alone  in  the  deserted  mansion— for 
there  is  no  companionship  in  the  shut-up  rooms  in  which 
its  late  master  hides  his  head — is  not  alone  long.  It  is 


548 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


night ; and  she  is  sitting  at  work  in  the  housekeepers 
room,  trying  to  forget  what  a lonely  house  it  is,  and 
what  a hi'  tory  belongs  to  it ; when  there  is  a knock  at 
the  hall  door,  as  loud  sounding  as  any  knock  can  be, 
striking  into  such  an  empty  place.  Opening  it,  she  re- 
turns across  the  echoing  hall,  accompanied  by  a female 
figure  in  a close  black  bonnet.  It  is  Miss  Tox,  and  Miss 
Tox^s  eyes  are  red. 

Oh  Polly, says  Miss  Tox,  when  I looked  in  to 
have  a little  lesson  with  the  children  just  now,  I got  the 
message  that  you  left  for  me  ; and  as  soon  as  I could  re. 
cover  my  spirits  at  all,  I came  on  after  you.  Is  there  no 
one  here  but  you  ? 

Ah  ! not  a soul,’^  says  Polly. 

‘‘  Have  you  seen  him?”  whispers  Miss  Tox. 

Bless  you,”  returns  Polly,  no  ; he  has  not  been 
seen  this  many  a day.  They  tell  me  he  never  leaves  his 
room.” 

‘‘  Is  he  said  to  be  ill  ? ” inquires  Miss  Tox. 

‘"No  ma’am,  not  that  I know  of,”  returns  Polly, 

except  in  his  mind.  He  must  be  very  bad  there,  poor 
gentleman  ! ” 

Miss  Tox’s  sympathy  is  such  that  she  can  scarcely 
speak.  She  is  no  chicken,  but  she  has  not  grown  tough 
with  age  and  celibacy.  Her  heart  is  very  tender,  her 
compassion  very  genuine,  her  homage  very  real.  Be- 
neath the  locket  with  the  fishy-eye  in  it.  Miss  Tox  bears 
better  qualities  than  many  a less  whimsical  outside  ; such 
qualities  as  will  outlive,  by  many  courses  of  the  sun,  the 
best  outsides  and  brightest  husks  that  fall  in  the  harvest 
of  the  Great  Reaper. 

It  is  long  before  Miss  Tox  goes  away,  and  before  Polly, 
with  a candle  flaring  on  the  blank  stairs,  looks  after  her, 
for  company,  down  the  street,  and  feels  unwilling  to  go 
back  into  the  dreary  house,  and  jar  its  emptiness  with 
the  heavy  fastenings  of  the  door,  and  glide  away  to  bed. 
But  all  this  Polly  does  ; and  in  the  morning  sets  in  one 
of  those  darkened  rooms  such  matters  as  she  has  been 
advised  to  prepare,  and  then  retires  and  enters  them  no 
more  until  next  morning  at  the  same  hour.  There  are 
bells  there,  but  they  never  ring ; and  though  she  can 
sometimes  hear  a foot-fall  going  to  and  fro,  it  never 
comes  out. 

Miss  Tox  returns  early  in  the  day.  It  then  begins  to 
be  Miss  Tox’s  occupation  to  prepare  little  dainties — or 
what  are  such  to  her — to  be  carried  into  these  rooms 
next  morning.  She  derives  so  much  satisfaction  from 
the  pursuit,  that  she  enters  on  it  regularly  from  that 
time  ; and  brings  daily  in  her  little  basket,  various  choice 
condiments  selected  from  the  scanty  stores  of  the  de° 
ceased  owner  of  the  powdered  head  and  pigtail.  She 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


549 


likewise  brings,  in  sheets  of  curl  paper,  morsels  of  cold 
meats,  tongues  of  sheep,  halves  of  fowls,  for  her  own 
dinner ; and  sharing  these  collations  with  Polly,  passes 
the  greater  part  of  her  time  in  the  ruined  house  that 
the  rats  have  fled  from  : hiding,  in  a fright  at  every 
sound,  stealing  in  and  out  like  a criminal  ; only  desiring 
to  he  true  to  the  fallen  object  of  her  admiration,  un- 
known to  him,  unknown  to  all  the  world  but  one  poor 
simple  woman. 

The  major  knows  it  ; but  no  one  is  the  wiser  for  that, 
though  the  major  is  much  the  merrier.  The  major,  in  a 
fit  of  curiosity,  has  charged  the  native  to  watch  the 
house  sometimes,  and  find  out  w^hat  becomes  of  Dombey. 
The  native  has  reported  Miss  Tox’s  fidelity,  and  the 
major  has  nearly  choked  himself  dead  with  laughter. 
He  is  permanently  bluer  from  that  hour,  and  constantly 
wheezes  to  himself,  his  lobster  eyes  starting  out  of  his 
head,  “ Damme,  sir,  the  woman^s  a born  idiot.” 

And  the  ruined  man.  How  does  he  pass  the  hours, 
alone  ? 

“ Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come  1 
He  did  remember  it.  It  w^as  heavy  on  his  mind  now  ; 
heavier  than  all  the  rest. 

“Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  year's  to  come. 
The  rain  that  falls  upon  the  roof,  the  wind  that  mourns 
outside  the  door,  may  have  foreknowledge  in  their  mel- 
ancholy sound.  Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years 
to  come  ! ” 

He  did  remember  it.  In  the  miserable  night  he  thought 
of  it ; in  the  dreary  day,  the  wretched  dawn,  the  ghost- 
ly, memory -haunted  twilight.  He  did  remember  it.  In 
agony,  in  sorrow,  in  remorse,  in  despair  ! ‘^Papa  ! papa! 
Speak  to  me,  dear  papa  ! ” He  heard  the  words  again, 
and  saw  the  face.  He  saw  it  fall  upon  the  trembling 
hands,  and  heard  the  one  prolonged  low  cry  go  upward. 

He  was  fallen,  never  to  be  raised  up  any  more.  For 
the  night  of  his  worldly  ruin  there  was  no  to-morrow’ 
sun  ; for  the  stain  of  his  domestic  shame  there  was  no 
purification  ; nothing,  thank  Heaven,  could  bring  his 
dead  child  back  to  life.  But  that  which  he  might  have 
made  so  different  in  all  the  past — which  might  have 
made  the  past  itself  so  different,  though  this  be  hardly 
thought  of  now — that  which  was  his  own  w^ork,  that 
which  he  could  so  easily  have  wrought  into  a blessing, 
and  had  set  himself  so  steadily  for  years  to  form  into  a 
curse  : that  was  the  sharp  grief  of  his  soul. 

Oh  I He  did  remember  it  \ The  rain  that  fell  upon 
the  roof,  the  wind  that  mourned  outside  the  door  that 
night,  had  had  foreknowledge  in  their  melancholy  sound. 
He  knew,  now,  what  he  had  done.  He  knew,  now,  that 
he  had  called  down  that  upon  his  head,  which  bowed  it 


550 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


lower  than  the  heaviest  stroke  of  fortune.  He  knew^ 
now,  what  it  was  to  be  rejected  and  deserted  ; now,  when 
every  loving  blossom  he  had  withered  in  his  innocent 
daughter’s  heart  was  snowing  down  in  ashes  on  him. 

He  thought  of  her,  as  she  had  been  that  night  when 
he  and  his  bride  came  home.  He  thought  of  her  as  she 
had  been,  in  all  the  home-events  of  the  abandoned  house. 
He  thought,  now,  that  of  all  around  him,  she  alone  had 
Lever  changed.  His  boy  had  faded  into  diist,  his  proud 
wife  had  sunk  into  a polluted  creature,  his  flatterer  and 
friend  had  been  transformed  into  the  worst  of  villains, 
his  riches  had  melted  away,  the  very  wails  that  shelter- 
ed him  looked  on  him  as  a stranger  ; she  alone  had  turned 
the  same  mild  gentle  look  upon  him  always.  Yes,  to  the 
latest  and  the  last.  She  had  never  changed  to  him — nor 
had  he  ever  changed  to  her— -and  she  was  lost. 

As,  one  by  one,  they  fell  away  before  his  mind—his 
Laby-hope,  his  wife,  his  friend,  his  fortune — oh  how  the 
mist,  through  which  he  had  seen  her,  cleared,  and  showed 
him  her  true  self  ! Oh,  how  much  better  than  this  that 
he  had  loved  her  as  he  had  his  boy,  and  lost  her  as  he 
had  his  boy,  and  laid  them  in  their  early  grave  together  ! 

In  his  pride — for  he  was  proud  yet — he  let  the  world 

fo  from  him  freely.  As  it  fell  away,  he  shook  it  ofl. 

V^hether  he  imagined  its  face  as  expressing  pity  for  him, 
or  indifference  to  him,  he  shunned  it  alike.  It  was  in 
the  same  degree  to  be  avoided,  in  either  aspect.  He  had 
no  idea  of  any  one  companion  in  his  misery,  but  the  one 
he  had  driven  away.  What  he  would  have  said  to  her, 
or  what  consolation  submitted  to  receive  from  her,  he 
never  pictured  to  himself.  But  he  always  knew  she 
would  have  been  true  to  him,  if  he  had  suffered  her.  He 
always  knew  she  would  have  loved  him  better  now,  than 
at  any  other  time  : he  was  as  certain  that  it  was  in  her 
nature,  as  he  was  that  there  was  a sky  above  him  ; and 
he  sat  thinking  so,  in  his  loneliness,  from  hour  to  hour. 
Day  after  day  uttered  this  speech  ; night  after  night 
showed  him  this  knowledge. 

It  began,  beyond  all  doubt  (however  slowly  it  advanced 
for  some  time),  in  the  receipt  of  her  young  husband’s  let- 
ter, and  the  certainty  that  she  was  gone.  And  yet — so 
proud  he  was  in  his  ruin,  or  so  reminiscent  of  her  only 
as  something  that  might  have  been  his,  but  was  lost  be- 
yond redemption — that  if  he  could  have  heard  her  voice 
in  an  adjoining  room,  he  would  not  have  gone  to  her.  If 
he  could  have  seen  her  in  tho  street,  and  she  had  done  no 
more  than  look  at  him  as  she  had  been  used  to  look,  he 
would  have  passed  on  with  his  old  cold  unforgiving  face, 
and  not  addressed  her,  or  relaxed  it,  though  his  Lieart 
should  have  broken  soon  afterwards.  However  turbu- 
lent his  thoughts,  or  harsh  his  anger  had  been,  at  flrst, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


551 


concerning  lier  marriage,  or  her  husband,  that  was  all 
past  now.  He  chiefly  thought  of  what  might  have  been, 
and  what  was  not.  What  was,  was  all  summed  up  in 
this  : that  she  was  lost,  and  he  bowed  down  with  sorrow 
and  remorse. 

And  now  he  felt  that  he  had  had  two  children  born  to 
him  in  that  house;  and  that  between  him  and  the  bare 
empty  wall  there  was  a tie,  mournful,  but  hard  to  rend 
asunder,  connected  with  a double  childhood,  and  a double 
loss.  He  had  thought  to  leave  the  house— knowing  he 
must  go,  not  knowing  whither — upon  the  evening  of  the 
day  on  which  this  feeling  first  struck  root  in  his  breast ; 
but  he  resolved  to  stay  another  night,  and  in  the  night 
to  ramble  through  the  rooms  once  more. 

He-came  out  of  his  solitude  when  it  was  the  dead  of 
night,  and  with  a candle  in  his  hand  went  softly  up  the 
stairs.  Of  all  the  footmarks  there,  making  them  as 
common  as  the  common  street,  there  was  not  one,  he 
thought,  but  had  seemed  at  the  time  to  set  itself  upon 
his  brain  while  he  had  kept  close,  listening.  He  looked 
at  their  number,  and  their  hurry,  and  contention — foot 
treading  foot  out,  and  upward  track  and  downward  jost- 
ling one  another — and  thought,  with  absolute  dread  and 
wonder,  how  much  he  must  have  suffered  during  that 
trial,  and  what  a changed  man  he  had  cause  to  be.  He 
thought,  besides,  oh  was  there,  somewhere  in  the  world, 
a light  footstep  that  might  have  worn  out  in  a moment 
half  those  marks  ! — and  bent  his  head,  and  wept  as  he 
went  up. 

He  almost  saw  it,  going  on  before.  He  stopped,  look- 
ing up  towards  the  skylight  ; and  a figure,  childish  it- 
self, but  carrying  a child,  and  singing  as  it  went,  seemed 
to  be  there  again.  Anon,  it  was  the  same  figure,  alone, 
stopping  for  an  instant,  with  suspended  breath  ; the 
bright  hair  clustering  loosely  round  its  tearful  face  ; and 
looking  back  at  him. 

He  wandered  through  the  rooms  : lately  so  luxurious ; 
now  so  bare  and  dismal  and  so  changed,  apparently, 
even  in  their  shape  and  size.  The  press  of  footsteps  was 
as  thick  here  ; and  the  same  consideration  of  the  suffer- 
ing he  had  had,  perplexed  and  terrified  him.  He  began 
to  fear  that  ail  this  intricacy  in  his  brain  would  drive 
him  mad  ; and  that  his  thoughts  already  lost  coherence 
as  the  foot-prints  did,  and  were  pieced  on  to  one  another, 
with  the  sa.me  trackless  involutions,  and  varieties  of  in- 
distinct shapes. 

He  did  not  so  much  as  know  in  which  of  these  rooms 
she  had  lived,  when  she  was  alone.  H^  was  glad  to 
leave  them,  and  go  wandering  higher  up.  Abundance 
of  associations  were  here,  connected  with  his  false  wife, 
his  false  friend  and  servant,  his  false  grounds  of  pride  ; 


552 


WOEKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


but  lie  put  them  all  by  now,  and  only  recalled  miserably, 
weakly,  fondly,  his  two  children. 

Everywhere,  the  footsteps  ! They  had  had  no  respect 
for  the  old  room  high  up,  where  the  little  bed  had  been  ; 
he  could  hardly  find  a clear  space  there,  to  throw  him- 
self down,  on  the  floor,  against  the  w^all,  poor  broken 
man,  and  let  his  tears  fiow^  as  they  wauld.  He  had  shed 
so  many  tears  here,  long  ago,  that  he  ’ivas  less  ashamed 
of  his  weakness  in  this  place  than  in  any  other — per- 
haps,  with  that  consciousness,  had  made  excuses  to  him- 
self for  coming  here.  Here,  with  stooping  shoulders 
and  his  chin  dropped  on  his  breast,  he  had  come.  Here, 
thrown  upon  the  bare  boards,  in  the  dead  of  night,  he 
wept,  alone — a proud  man,  even  then  ; who,  if  a kind 
hand  could  have  been  stretched  out,  or  a kind  face  could 
have  looked  in,  would  have  risen  up,  and  turned  away, 
and  gone  down  to  his  cell. 

When  the  day  broke  he  was  shut  up  in  his  rooms 
again.  He  had  meant  to  go  away  to-day,  but  clung  to 
this  tie  in  the  house  as  the  last  and  only  thing  left  to 
Lim,  He  would  go  to-morrow^  To-morrow  came.  He 
would  go  to-morrow.  Every  night,  within  the  knowl- 
edge of  no  human  creature,  he  came  forth,  and  wandered 
through  the  despoiled  house  like  a ghost.  Many  a 
morning  w^hen  the  day  broke,  his  altered  face,  drooping 
behind  the  closed  blind  in  his  window,  imperfectly 
transparent  to  the  light  as  yet,  pondered  on  the  loss  of 
his  two  children.  It  w^as  one  child  no  more.  He  re- 
united them  in  his  thoughts,  and  tliey  were  never  asun- 
der. Oh,  that  he  could  have  united  them  in  his  past 
love,  and  in  death,  and  that  one  had  not  been  so  much 
worse  than  dead  ! 

Strong  mental  agitation  and  disturbance  was  no  nov- 
elty to  him,  even  before  his  late  sufferings.  It  never  is 
to  obstinate  and  sullen  natures  ; for  they  struggle  hard 
to  be  such.  Ground,  long  undermined,  will  often  fall 
down  in  a moment ; wiiat  w^as  undermined  here  in  so 
many  w^ays,  w^eakened,  and  crumbled,  little  by  little, 
more  and  more,  as  the  hand  moved  cn  the  dial. 

At  last  he  began  to  think  he  need  not  go  at  all.  He 
might  yet  give  up  what  his  creditors  had  spared  him 
(that  they  had  not  spared  him  more,  was  his  own  act), 
and  only  sever  the  tie  between  him  and  the  ruined 
house,  by  severing  that  other  link — 

It  was  then  that  his  footfall  w^as  audible  in  the  late 
housekeeper’s  room,  as  he  walked  to  and  fro  ; but  not 
audible  in  its  true  meaning,  or  it  would  have  had  an  ap- 
palling sound. . 

The  world  was  very  busy  and  restless  about  him.  He 
became  aware  of  that  again.  It  w*as  w^hispenng  and 
babbling.  It  w^as  never  quiet.  This,  and  the  intricacy 


DOMBF.Y  AND  SON. 


553 


and  complication  of  the  footsteps,  harassed  him  to  death. 
Objects  began  to  take  a bleared  and  russet  colour  in  his 
eyes.  Dombey  and  Son  was  no  more — his  children  no 
more.  This  must  be  thought  of,  well,  to-morrow. 

He  thought  of  it  to-morrow  ; and  sitting  thinking  in 
his  chair,  saw,  in  the  glass,  from  time  to  time,  this  pic- 
ture : 

A spectral,  haggard,  wasted  likeness  of  himself, 
brooded  and  brooded  over  the  empty  fireplace.  Now  it 
lifted  up  its  head,  examining  the  lines  and  hollows  in 
its  face  ; now  hung  it  down  again,  and  brooded  afresh. 
Now  it  rose  and  walked  about  ; now  passed  into  the 
next  room,  and  came  back  with  something  from  the 
dressing-table  in  its  breast.  Now,  it  was  looking  at  the 
bottom  of  the  door,  and  thinking. 

— Hush  ! what  ? 

It  was  thinking  that  if  blood  were  to  trickle  that  way, 
and  to  leak  out  into  the  hall,  it  must  be  a long  time  go- 
ing so  far.  It  would  move  so  stealthily  and  slowly, creep- 
ing on, with  here  a lazy  little  pool,  and  there  a start,  and 
then  another  little  pool,  that  a desperately  wounded  man 
could  only  be  discovered  through  its  means,  either  dead 
or  dying.  When  it  had  thought  of  this  a long  while,  it 
got  up  again,  and  walked  to  and  fro  with  its  hand  in  its 
breast.  He  glanced  at  it  occasionally,  very  curious  to 
watch  its  motions,  and  he  marked  how  wicked  and  mur- 
derous that  hand  looked. 

Now  it  was  thinking  again!  What  was  it  thinking? 

Whether  they  would  tread  in  the  blood  when  it  crept 
so  far,  and  carry  it  about  the  house  among  those  many 
prints  of  feet,  or  even  out  into  the  street. 

It  sat  down,  with  its  eyes  upon  the  empty  fireplace,  and 
as  it  lost  itself  in  thought  there  shone  into  the  room  a 
gleam  of  light  ; a ray  of  sun.  It  was  quite  unmindful, 
and  sat  thinking.  Suddenly  it  rose,  with  a terrible  face, 
and  that  guilty  hand  grasping  what  was  in  its  breast. 
Then  it  was  arrested  by  a cry — a wild,  loud,  piercing, 
loving,  rapturous  cry — and  he  only  saw  his  own  reflec- 
tion in  the  glass,  and  at  his  knees,  his  daughter  ! 

Yes.  His  daughter  1 Look  at  her  ! Look  here  ! 
Down  upon  the  ground,  clinging  to  him,  calling  to  him, 
folding  her  hands,  praying  to  him. 

I^apa  ' Dearest  papa  ! Pardon  me,  forgive  me  I I 
have  come  back  to  ask  forgiveness  on  my  knees.  I never 
can  be  happy  more,  without  it  I 

Unchanged  still.  Df  all  the  world,  unchanged. 
Baising  the  same  face  to  his,  as  on  that  miserable  night. 
Asking  Ms  forgiveness  ! 

‘‘  Dear  papa,  oh  don’t  look  strangely  on  me  I I 
never  meant  to  leave  you.  I never  thought  of  it,  before 
or  afterwards.  I was  frightened  when  I went  away,  and 

VOL.  13  --X 


554 


WORiiS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


could  not  fhiiik.  Papa,  dear,  I am  changed.  I am  pen- 
itent. I know  my  fault.  I know  my  duty  better  now. 
Papa,  don’t  cast  me  off,  or  I shall  die  ! ” 

He  tottered  to  his  chair.  He  felt  her  draw  his  arms 
about  her  neck  : he  felt  her  put  her  own  round  his  ; he 
felt  her  kisses  on  his  face  ; he  felt  her  wet  cheek  laid 
against  his  own  ; he  felt — oh,  how  deeply  ! — all  that  he 
had  done 

Upon  the  breast  that  he  had  bruised,  against  the 
heart  that  he  had  almost  broken,  she  laid  his  face,  now 
covered  with  his  hands,  and  said,  sobbing : 

“ Papa,  love,  I am  a mother.  I have  a child  who  will 
soon  call  Walter  by  the  name  by  which  I call  you.  When 
it  was  bom,  and  when  I knew  how  much  I loved  it,  I 
knew  what  I had  done  in  leaving  you.  Forgive  me, 
dear  papa  ! oh  say  God  bless  me,  and  my  little  child  I ” 
He  would  have  said  it, if  he  could.  He  would  have  rais- 
ed his  hands  and  besought  her  for  pardon,  but  she  caught 
them  in  her  own,  and  put  them  down,  hurriedly. 

My  little  child  was  born  at  sea,  papa.  I prayed  to 
God  (and  so  did  Walter  for  me)  to  spare  me,  that  I 
might  come  home.  The  moment  I could  land,  I came 
back  to  you.  Never  let  us  be  parted  any  more,  papa. 
Never  let  us  be  parted  any  more  ! ” 

His  head,  now  gray,  was  encircled  by  her  arm  ; and 
he  groaned  to  think  that  never,  never,  had  it  rested  so 
before. 

You  will  come  home  with  me,  papa,  and  see  my 
baby.  A boy,  papa.  His  name  is  Paul.  I think — i 
hope — ^he’s  like — ” 

Her  tears  stopped  her. 

Dear  papa,  for  the  sake  of  my  child,  for  the  sake 
of  the  name  v/e  have  given  him,  for  my  sake,  pardon 
Walter.  He  is  so  kind  and  tender  to  me.  I am  so  happy 
with  him.  It  was  not  his  fault  that  we  were  married. 
It  was  mine.  I loved  him  so  much.” 

She  clung  closer  to  him,  more  endearing  and  more 
earnest. 

' ' He  is  the  darling  of  my  heart,  papa.  I would  die  for 
him.  He  will  love  and  honour  you  as  I will.  We  will 
teach  our  little  child  to  love  and  honour  you  : and  we  will 
tell  him,  when  he  can  understand,  that  you  had  a son  of 
that  name  once,  and  that  he  died,  and  you  were  very 
sorry  ; but  that  he  is  gone  to  heaven,  where  we  all 
hope  to  see  him  when  our  time  for  resting  comes. 
Kiss  me,  papa,  as  a promise  that  you  will  be  reconciled 
to  Walter — to  my  dearest  husband — to  the  father  of  the 
little  child  who  taught  me  to  come  back,  papa.  Who 
taught  me  to  come  back  ! ” 

As  she  clung  closer  to  him,  in  another  burst  of  tears, 
he  kissed  her  on  her  lips,  and  lifting  up  his  eyes,  said. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


555 


Oh  my  God,  forgive  me,  for  I need  it  very  much  ? ” 

With  that  he  dropped  his  head  again,  lamenting  ove? 
and  caressing  her,  and  there  was  not  a sound  in  all  the 
house  for  a long  long  time  ; they  remaining  clasped  in 
one  another’s  arms,  in  the  glorious  sunshine  that  had 
crept  in  with  Florence. 

He  dressed  himself  for  going  out,  with  a docile  sub- 
mission to  her  entreaty  ; and  walking  with  a feeble 
gait,  and  looking  back,  with  a tremble,  at  the  room  in 
which  he  had  been  so  long  shut  up,  and  where  he  had  seen 
the  picture  in  the  glass, passed  out  with  her  into  the  halL 
Florence,  hardly  glancing  round  her,  lest  she  should  re- 
mind him  freshly  of  their  last  parting — for  their  feet  were 
on  the  very  stones  where  he  had  struck  her  in  his  mad- 
ness— and  keeping  close  to  him,  with  her  eyes  upon  his 
face,  and  his  arm  about  her,  led  him  out  to  a coach  that 
was  waiting  at  the  door,  and  carried  him  away. 

Then,  Miss  Tox  and  Polly  came  out  of  their  conceak 
ment,  and  exulted  tearfully.  And  then  they  packed: 
his  clothes,  and  books,  and  so  forth,  with  greait 
care  ; and  consigned  them  in  due  course  to  certain  per 
sons  sent  by  Florence  in  the  evening,  to  fetch  them. 
And  then  they  took  a last  cup  of  tea  in  the  lonely  house. 

'‘And  so  Dombey  and  Son,  as  I observed  upon  a cer- 
tain sad  occasion,”  said  Miss  Tox,  winding  up  a host  of 
recollections,  "is  indeed  a daughter,  Polly,  after  all.” 

" And  a good  one  ! ” exclaimed  Polly. 

"You  are  right,”  said  Miss  Tox  ; " and  it's  a credit  to 
you,  Polly,  that  you  were  always  her  friend  when  she 
was  a little  child.  You  were  her  friend  long  before 
I was,  Polly,”  said  Miss  Tox  ; " and  you’re  a good  crea- 
ture. Robin  ! ” 

Miss  Tox  addressed  herself  to  a bullet-headed  young 
man, who  appeared  to  be  in  but  indifferent  circumstances, 
and  in  depressed  spirits,  and  who  was  sitting  in  a re- 
mote corner.  Rising,  he  disclosed  to  view  the  form  and 
features  of  the  Grinder. 

" Robin,”  said  Miss  Tox,  "I  have  just  observed  to 
your  mother,  as  you  have  may  have  heard,  that  she  is  a 
good  creature.” 

"And  so  she  is,  miss,”  quoth  the  Grinder,  with  some 
feeling. 

"Very  well,  Robin,”  said  Miss  Tox,  " I am  glad  to  hear 
you  say  so.  Now,  Robin,  as  I am  going  to  give  you  a 
trial,  at  your  urgent  request,  as  my  domestic,  with 
a view  to  your  restoration  to  respectability,  I will  take 
this  impressive  occasion  of  remarking  that  I hope  you 
will  never  forget  that  you  have,  and  have  always  had,  a 
good  mother,  and  that  you  will  endeavour  so  to  conduct 
yourself  as  to  be  a comfort  to  her.” 

" Upon  my  soul  I will,  miss,”  returned  the  Grinder. 


556 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


I have  come  through  a good  deal,  and  my  intentions 
is  now  as  straight  forward,  miss,  as  a cove’s — ” 

‘ ‘ I must  get  you  to  break  yourself  of  that  word, 
Robin,  if  you  please,”  interposed  Miss  Tox,  politely. 

“ If  you  please,  miss,  as  a chap’s — ” 

Thankee, Robin,  no,”  returned  Miss  Tox.  “ I should 
prefer  individual.” 

As  a indiwiddle’s,”  said  the  Grinder. 

Much  better,”  remarked  Miss  Tox,  complacently ; 
" infinitely  more  expressive  ! ” 

"" — can  be,”  pursued  Rob.  If  I hadn’t  been  and  got 
made  a Grinder  on,  miss  and  mother,  which  was  a most 
unfortunate  circumstance  for  a young  co — indiwiddle.” 
‘‘  Very  good  indeed,”  observed  Miss  Tox  approvingly. 
— and  if  I hadn’t  been  led  away  by  birds,  and  then 
fallen  into  a bad  service,”  said  the  Grinder,  I hope  I 
might  have  done  better.  But  it’s  never  to  late  for  a — ” 
Indi — ” suggested  Miss  Tox. 

“ widdle,”  said  the  Grinder,  **  to  mend  ; and  I hope  to 
mend,  miss,  with  your  kind  trial  ; and  wishing,  mother, 
my  love  to  father,  and  brothers  and  sisters,  and  say 
ing  of  it.” 

I am  very  glad  indeed  to  hear  it,”  observed  Miss  Tox. 
Will  you  take  a little  bread  and  butter,  and  a cup  of 
tea,  before  we  go,  Robin  ? ” 

Thankee,  miss,”  returned  the  Grinder  ; who  immedi- 
ately began  to  use  his  own  personal  grinders  in  a most 
remarkable  manner,  as  if  he^had  been  on  very  short  al- 
lowance for  a considerable  period. 

Miss  Tox  being,  in  good  time,  bonneted  and  shawled, 
and  Polly  too,  Rob  hugged  his  mother,  and  followed  his 
new  mistress  away  ; so  much  to  the  hopeful  admiration  of 
Polly,  that  something  in  her  eyes  made  luminous  rings 
round  the  gas-lamps  as  she  looked  after  hiin.  Polly 
then  put  out  her  light,  locked  the  house-door,  delivered 
the  key  at  an  agent’s  hard  by,  and  went  home  as  fast  as 
she  could  go  ; rejoicing  in  the  shrill  delight  that  her  un- 
expected arrival  would  occasion  there.  The  great  house, 
dumb  as  to  all  that  had  been  suffered  in  it,  and  the 
changes  it  had  witnessed,  stood  frowning  like  a dark 
mute  on  the^treet ; baulking  any  nearer  inquiries  with 
the  staring  announcement  that  the  lease  of  this  desirable 
Family  Mansion  was  to  be  disposed  of. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


557 


CHAPTER  LX. 

Chiefiy  Matrimonial. 

The  grand  half-yearly  festival  holden  by  Doctor  and 
Mrs.  Blimber,  on  which  occasion  they  requested  the 
pleasure  of  the  company  of  every  young  gentleman  pur- 
suing his  studies  in  that  genteel  establishment,  at  an  ear- 
ly party,  when  the  hour  was  half -past  seven  o’clock,  and 
when  the  object  was  quadrilles,  had  duly  taken  place, 
about  this  time  ; and  the  young  gentlemen,  with  no  un- 
becoming demonstrations  of  levity,  had  betaken  them- 
selves, in  a state  of  scholastic  repletion,  to  their  own 
homes.  Mr.  Skettles  had  repaired  abroad,  permanently 
to  grace  the  establishment  of  his  father  Sir  Barnet  Sket- 
tles, whose  popular  manners  had  obtained  him  a diplo- 
matic appointment,  the  honours  of  which  were  discharged 
by  himself  and  Lady  Skettles,  to  the  satisfaction  even  of 
their  own  countrymen  and  countrywomen  : which  was 
considered  almost  miraculous,  Mr.  Tozer,  now  a young 
man  of  lofty  stature,  in  Wellington  boots,  was  so  ex- 
tremely full  of  antiquity  as  to  be  nearly  on  a par  with  a 
genuine  ancient  Roman  in  his  knowledge  of  English  : a 
triumph  that  affected  his  good  parents  with  the  tender- 
est  emotions,  and  caused  the  father  and  mother  of  Mr. 
Briggs  (whose  learning,  like  ill-arranged  luggage,  was  so 
Mghtly  packed  that  he  couldn’t  get  at  anything  he  want- 
ed) to  hide  their  diminished  heads.  The  fruit  laboriously 
gathered  from  the  tree  of  knowledge  by  this  latter  young 
gentleman,  in  fact,  had  been  subjected  to  so  much  pres- 
sure, that  it  had  become  a kind  of  intellectual  Norfolk 
Biffin,  and  had  nothing  of  its  original  form  or  flavour  re- 
maining. Master  Bitherstone  now,  on  whom  the  forcing 
system  had  the  happier  and  not  uncommon  effect  of  leav- 
ing no  impression  whatever,  when  the  forcing  apparatus 
ceased  to  work,  was  in  a much  more  comfortable  plight ; 
and  being  then  on  shipboard,  bound  for  Bengal,  found 
himself  forgetting,  with  such  admirable  rapidity,  that  it 
was  doubtful  whether  his  declensions  of  noun-substan- 
tives would  hold  out  to  the  end  of  the  voyage. 

When  Doctor  Blimber,  in  pursuance  of  the  usual  course, 
would  have  said  to  the  young  gentlemen,  on  the  morning 
of  the  party,  ‘‘Gentlemen,  we  will  resume  our  studies 
on  the  twenty-fifth  of  next  month,”  he  departed  from  the 
usual  course,  and  said,  “ Gentlemen,  when  our  friend  Cm. 
cinnatus  retired  to  his  farm,  he  did  not  present  to  the 
senate  any  Roman  whom  he  sought  to  nominate  as  his 
successor.  But  there  is  a Roman  here,”  said  DoctoS 


558  WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

Blimber,  laying  liis  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  Mr.  Feeder, 
B.A.,  “ adolescens  imprimis  grmis  et  doctus,  gentlemen, 
whom  I,  a retiring  Cincinnatus,  wish  to  present  to  my 
little  senate,  as  their  future  Dictator.  Gentlemen,  we 
will  resume  our  studies  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  next  month, 
under  the  auspices  of  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.’'  At  this  (which 
Dr.  Blimher  had  previously  called  upon  all  the  parents, 
and  urbanely  explained),  the  young  gentlemen  cheered  ; 
and  Mr.  Tozer,  on  behalf  of  the  rest,  instantly  presented 
the  doctor  with  a silver  inkstand,  in  a speech  containing 
very  little  of  the  mother- tongue,  but  fifteen  quotations 
from  the  Latin,  and  seven  from  the  Greek,  which  moved 
the  younger  of  the  young  gentlemen  to  discontent  and 
envy  ; they  remarking,  Oh,  ah  ! It  was  all  very  well 
for  old  Tozer,  but  they  didn’t  subscribe  money  for  old 
Tozer  to  show  off  with,  they  supposed  ; did  they?  What 
business  was  it  of  old  Tozer ’s  more  than  anybody  else’s? 
It  wasn’t  Ms  inkstand.  Why  couldn’t  he  leave  the  boys’ 
property  alone  ? ” and  murmuring  other  expressions  of 
their  dissatisfaction,  which  seemed  to  find  a greater  re- 
lief in  calling  him  old  Tozer,  than  in  any  other  available 
vent. 

Not  a word  had  been  said  to  the  young  gentlemen,  nor 
a hint  dropped,  of  anything  like  a contemplated  marriage 
between  Mr.  Feeder,  B A.,  and  the  fair  Cornelia  Blimber. 
Doctor  Blimber,  especially,  seemed  to  take  pains  to  look 
as  if  nothing  would  surprise  him  more  ; but  it  was  per- 
fectly well  known  to  all  the  young  gentlemen  neverthe- 
less, and  when  they  departed  for  the  society  of  their  re- 
lations and  friends^  they  took  leave  of  Mr.  Feeder  with 
awe. 

Mr.  Feeder’s  most  romantic  visions  were  fulfilled.  The 
doctor  had  determined  to  paint  the  house  outside,  and 
put  it  in  thorough  repair  ; and  to  give  up  the  business, 
and  to  give  up  Cornelia.  The  painting  and  repairing  be- 
gan upon  the  very  day  of  the  young  gentlemen’s  depar- 
ture, and  now  behold  ! the  wedding  morning  was  come, 
and  Cornelia,  in  a new  pair  of  spectacles,  was  waiting  to 
be  led  to  the  hymeneal  altar. 

The  doctor  with  his  learned  legs,  and  Mrs.  Blimber  in 
a lilac  bonnet,  and  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  with  his  long 
knuckles  and  his  bristly  head  of  hair,  and  Mr.  Feeder's 
brother,  the  Reverend  Alfred  Feeder,  M.A.,  who  was  to 
perform  the  ceremony,  were  all  assembled  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  Cornelia  with  her  orange-flowers  and 
bridesmaids  had  just  come  down,  and  looked,  as  of  old,  a 
little  squeezed  in  appearance,  but  very  charming,  when 
the  door  opened,  and  the  weak-eyed  young  man,  in  a loud 
voice,  made  the  following  proclamation  : 

‘‘  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Toots  ! ” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


559 


Upon  which  there  entered  Mr.  Toots,  grown  extremely 
stout,  and  on  his  arm  a lady  very  handsomely  and  be. 
comingly  dressed,  with  very  bright  black  eyes. 

“ Mrs.  Blimber,^^  said  Mr.  Toots,  allow  me  to  present 
my  wife.*’ 

Mrs.  Blimber  was  delighted  to  receive  her.  Mrs. 
Blimber  was  a little  condescending,  but  extremely  kind. 

And  as  you’ve  known  me  for  a long  time,  you 
know,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  let  me  assure  you  that  she  is 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  women  that  ever  lived.” 

My  dear,”  remonstrated  Mrs.  Toots. 

Upon  my  word  and  honour  she  is,”  said  Mr.  Toots. 

— I assure  you,  Mrs.  Blimber,  she’s  a most  extraordi- 
nary woman  ” 

Mrs.  Toots  laughed  merrily,  and  Mrs.  Blimber  led  her 
to  Cornelia.  Mr.  Toots  having  paid  his  respects  in  that 
direction,  and  having  saluted  his  old  preceptor,  who 
said,  in  allusion  to  his  conjugal  state,  ‘‘Well  Toots, 
well  Toots  ! So  you  are  one  of  us,  are  you.  Toots?’*— 
retired  with  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  into  a window. 

Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  being  in  great  spirits,  made  a spai 
at  Mr.  Toots,  and  tapped  him  skilfully  with  the  back  of 
his  hand  on  the  breast-bone. 

“Well,  old  Buck  !”  said  Mr.  Feeder,  with  a laugh. 
“Well  ! Here  we  are  ! Taken  in  and  done  for.  Eh?*^ 

“ Feeder,”  returned  Mr.  Toots.  “ I give  you  joy.  If 
you’re  as — as— as  perfectly  blissful  in  a matrimonial  life, 
as  I am  myself,  you’ll  have  nothing  to  desire.’ 

“ I don’t  forget  old  friends,  you  see,”  said  Mr. 
Feeder.  “ I ask  ’em  to  wedding.  Toots.” 

“Feeder,”  replied  Mr.  Toots  gravely,  “the  fact  is, 
that  there  were  several  circumstances  which  prevented 
me  from  communicating  with  you  until  after  my  mar- 
riage had  been  solemnised.  In  the  first  place,  I had 
made  a perfect  brute  of  myself  to  you  on  the  subject  of 
Miss  Dombey  ; and  I felt  that  if  you  were  asked  to  any 
wedding  of  mine,  you  would  naturally  expect  that  it 
was  wM  Miss  Dombey,  which  involved  explanations, 
that  upon  my  word  and  honour,  at  that  crisis,  would 
have  knocked  me  completely  over.  In  the  second  place, 
our  wedding  was  strictly  private  ; there  being  nobody 
present  but  one  friend  of  myself  and  Mrs.  Toots’s,  who 
is  a captain  in — I don’t  exactly  know  in  what,”  said  Mr. 
Toots,  “ but  it’s  of  no  consequence.  I hope.  Feeder, 
that  in  writing  a statement  of  what  had  occurred  before 
Mrs.  Toots  and  myself  went  abroad  upon  our  foreign 
tour,  I fully  discharged  the  offices  of  friendship.” 

“ Toots,  my  boy,”  said  Mr.  Feeder,  shaking  hands, 
“ I was  joking.” 

“And  now,  Feeder,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  “ I should  be  glad 
to  know  what  you  think  of  my  union.” 


560 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Capital  ! **  returned  Mr.  Feeder. 

‘"You  think  it’s  capital,  do  you.  Feeder?”  said  Mr. 
Toots  solemnly.  ''  Then  how  capital  must  it  be  to  Me. 
For  you  can  never  know^hat  an  extraordinary  woman 
that  is.  ” 

Mr.  Feeder  was  willing  to  take  it  for  granted.  But 
Mr.  Toots  shook  his  head,  and  wouldn’t  hear  of  that  be- 
ing possible. 

‘‘  You  see,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  what  I wanted  in  a wife, 
was — in  short,  was  sense.  Money,  Feeder,  I had. 
Sense  I — I had  not,  particularly.” 

Mr.  Feeder  murmured,  ''  Oh  yes,  you  had.  Toots  ! ” 
But  Mr.  Toots  said  : 

‘‘No,  Feeder,  I had  not.  Why  should  I disguise  it? 
I had  not,  I knew  that  sense  was  There,”  said  Mr. 
Toots,  stretching  out  his  hand  towards  his  wife,  “ in 
perfect  heaps.  I had  no  relation  to  object  or  be  of- 
fended, on  the  score  of  station  ; for  I had  no  relation.  I 
have  never  had  anybody  belonging  to  me  but  my  guar- 
dian, and  him.  Feeder,  I have  always  considered  as  a 
Pirate  and  a Corsair.  Therefore,  you  know,  it  was  not 
likely,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  “ that  I should  take  his 
opinion.” 

No,”  said  Mr.  Feeder. 

“ Accordingly,”  resumed  Mr.  Toots,  “ I acted  on  my 
own.  Bright  was  the  day  on  which  I did  so  ! Feeder  ! 
Nobody  but  myself  can  tell  what  the  capacity  of  that 
woman’s  mind  is.  If  ever  the  Rights  of  Woman,  and 
all  that  kind  of  thing,  are  properly  attended  to,  it  will 
be  through  her  powerful  intellect. — -Susan,  my  dear  ! ” 
said  Mr.  Toots,  looking  abruptly  out  of  the  window-cur- 
tains, ‘ ‘ pray  do  not  exert  yourself  ! ” 

“ My  dear,”  said  Mrs.  Toots,  “ I was  only  talking.” 

“But  my  love,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  “ pray  do  not  exert 
yourself.  You  really  must  be  careful.  Do  not,  my 
dear  Susan,  exert  yourself.  She’s  so  easily  excited,” 
said  Mr.  Toots,  apart  to  Mrs.  Blimber,  “and  then  she 
forgets  the  medical  man  altogether.” 

Mrs.  Blimber  was  impressing  on  Mrs.  Toots  the  ne- 
cessity of  caution,  when  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  offered  her 
his  arm,  and  led  her  down  to  the  carriages  that  were  in 
waiting  to  go  to  church.  Doctor  Blimber  escorted  Mrs. 
Toots.  Mr.  Toots  escorted  the  fair  bride,  around  whose 
lambent  spectacles  two  gauzy  little  bridesmaids  fluttered 
like  moths.  Mr.  Feeder’s  brother,  Mr.  Alfred  Feeder, 
M.  A.,  had  already  gone  on,  in  advance,  to  assume  his  of- 
ficial functions. 

The  ceremony  was  performed  in  an  admirable  manner. 
Cornelia  with  her  crisp  little  curls,  “ went  in,”  as  the 
Chicken  might  have  said,  with  great  composure  ; and 
Doctor  Blimber  gave  her  away,  like  a man  who  had 


DOMBEY  AND  So5f^ 


561 


quite  made  up  his  mind  to  it.  The  gauzy  little  brides- 
maids appeared  to  suffer  most.  Mrs.  Blimber  was  af- 
fected, but  gently  so  ; and  told  the  Reverend  Mr.  Alfred 
Feeder,  M.A.,  on  the  way  home,  that  if  she  could  only 
have  seen  Cicero  in  his  retirement  at  Tusculum,  she 
would  not  have  had  a wish,  now,  ungratified. 

There  was  a breakfast  afterwards,  limited  to  the  same 
small  party  ; at  which  the  spirits  of  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A., 
Were  tremendous,  and  so  communicated  themselves  to 
Mrs.  Toots,  that  Mr.  Toots  was  several  times  heard  to 
observe,  across  the  table,  *'My  dear  Susan,  don't  exert 
yourself  ! ” The  best  of  it  was,  that  Mr.  Toots  felt  it 
incumbent  on  him  to  make  a speech  ; and  in  spite  of  a 
whole  code  of  telegraphic  dissuasions  from  Mrs.  Toots, 
appeared  on  his  legs  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 

“ I really,’’  said  Mr.  Toots,  ‘‘in  this  house,  where 
whatever  was  done  to  me  in  the  way  of — of  any  mental 
confusion  sometimes — which  is  of  no  consequence  and  I 
impute  to  nobody — I was  always  treated  like  one  of  Doc- 
tor Blimber ’s  family,  and  had  a desk  to  myself  for  a con- 
siderable period— can — not — allow — my  friend  Feeder  to 
be — ” 

Mrs.  Toots  suggested  “married.” 

“ It  may  not  be  inappropriate  to  the  occasion,  or  al- 
together uninteresting,”  said  Mr.  Toots  with  a delighted 
face,  ‘ ‘ to  observe  that  my  wife  is  a most  extraordinary 
woman,  and  would  do  this  much  better  than  myself — 
allow  my  friend  Feeder  to  be  married — especially  to — ” 

Mrs.  Toots  suggested  “ to  Miss  Blimber.” 

“ To  Mrs.  Feeder,  my  love  ! ” said  Mr.  Toots,  in  a 
subdued  tone  of  private  discussion  ; “ ‘ whom  God  hath 
joined,’  you  know,  ‘let  no  man’ — don’t  you  know  ? I 
cannot  allow  my  friend.  Feeder,  to  be  married — espe- 
cially to  Mrs.  Feeder- — without  proposing  their — their — 
Toasts  ; and  may,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  fixing  his  eyes  on 
his  wife,  as  if  for  inspiration  in  a high  flight,  ‘ ‘ may  the 
torch  of  Hymen  be  the  beacon  of  joy,  and  may  the  flow- 
ers we  have  this  day  strewed  in  their  path,  be  the — the 
banishers  of — of  gloom  ! ” 

Doctor  Blimber,  who  had  a taste  for  metaphor,  was 
pleased  with  this,  and  said,  “Very  good.  Toots  ! Very 
well  said,  indeed.  Toots  ! ” and  nodded  his  head  and 
patted  his  hands.  Mr.  Feeder  made  in  reply,  a comic 
speech  chequered  with  sentiment.  Mr.  Alfred  Feeder, 
M.A.,  was  afterwards  very  happy  on  Doctor  and  Mrs. 
Blimber  ; Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  scarcely  less  so,  on  the 
gauzy  little  bridesmaids.  Doctor  Blimber  then  in  a 
sonorous  voice,  delivered  a few  thoughts  in  the  pastoral 
style,  relative  to  the  rushes  among  which  it  was  the  in- 
tention of  himself  and  Mrs.  Blimber  to  dwell,  and  the 
bee  that  would  hum  around  their  cot.  Shortly  after 


m 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


'w^hicli,  as  tlie  doctor’s  eyes  were  twinkling  in  a remark^ 
able  manner,  and  his  son-in-law  had  already  observed 
that  time  was  made  for  slaves,  and  had  inquired  whether 
Mrs.  Toots  sang,  the  discreet  Mrs.  Blimber  dissolved  the 
sitting,  and  sent  Cornelia  away,  very  cool  and  comfort- 
able, in  a ppst-chaise,  with  the  man  of  her  heart. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Toots  withdrew  to  the  Bedford  (Mrs. 
Toots  had  been  there  before  in  old  times,  under  her 
maiden  name  of  Nipper),  and  there  found  a letter,  which 
it  took  Mr.  Toots  such  an  enormous  time  to  read,  that 
Mrs.  Toots  was  frightened. 

'‘My  dear  Susan,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  “fright  is  worse 
than  exertion.  Pray  be  calm  ! ” 

“ Who  is  it  from  ? ” asked  Mrs.  Toots. 

“ Why,  my  love,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  “it’s  from  Captain 
Gills.  Do  not  excite  yourself.  Walter  and  Miss  Dom- 
bey  are  expected  home  ! ” 

“ My  dear,”  said  Mrs.  Toots,  raising  herself  quickly 
from  the  sofa,  very  pale,  “ don’t  try  to  deceive  me,  for 
it’s  no  use,  they’re  come  home — I see  it  plainly  in  your 
face  ! ” 

“She’s  a most  extraordinary  woman!”  exclaimed 
Mr.  Toots  in  rapturous  admiration.  “ You’re  perfectly 
right,  my  love,  they  have  come  home.  Miss  Dombey 
has  seen  her  father,  and  they  are  reconciled  ! ” 

“ Reconciled  !”  cried  Mrs.  Toots,  clapping  her  hands. 

“ My  dear,”  said  Mr.  Toots  ; “ pray  do  not  exert  your- 
self. Do  remember  the  medical  man!  Captain  Gills 
says — at  least  he  don’t  say,  but  I imag-ine,  from  what  I 
can  make  out,  he  means — that  Miss  Dombey  has  brought 
her  unfortunate  father  away  from  his  old  house,  to  one 
where  she  and  Walter  are  living  ; that  he  is  lying  very- 
ill  there— supposed  to  be  dying ; and  that  she  attends 
upon  him  night  and  day.’- 

Mrs.  Toots  began  to  cry  quite  bitterly. 

“ My  dearest  Susan,”  replied  Mr.  Toots,  “ do,  do,  if 
you  possibly  can,  remember  the  medical  man  ! If  you 
can’t,  it’s  of  no  consequence — but  do  endeavour  to  I ” 

His  wife,  with  her  old  manner  suddenly  restored,  so 
pathetically  entreated  him  to  take  her  to  her  precious 
pet,  her  little  mistress,  her  own  darling,  and  the  like, 
that  Mr.  Toots,  whose  sympathy  and  admiration  were  of 
the  strongest  kind,  consented  from  his  very  heart  of 
hearts  ; and  they  agreed  to  depart  immediately^  and 
present  themselves  in  answer  to  the  captain’s  letter. 

Now  some  hidden  sympathies  of  things,  or  some  coin- 
cidences, had  that  day  brought  the  captain  himself  (to- 
ward whom  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Toots  were  soon  journeying), 
into  the  flowery  train  of  wedlock  ; not  as  a principal, 
but  as  an  accessory.  It  happened  accidentally,  and 
thus  ; 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


5«B 


The  captain,  having  seen  Florence  and  her  baby  for 
a moment,  to  his  unbounded  content,  and  having  had  a 
long  talk  with  Walter,  turned  out  for  a walk  ; feeling 
it  necessary  to  have  some  solitary  meditation  on  the 
changes  of  human  affairs,  and  to  shake  his  glazed  hat 
profoundly  over  the  fall  of  Mr.  Dombey,  for  whom  the 
generosity  and  simplicity  of  his  nature  were  awakened 
in  a lively  manner.  The  captain  would  have  been  very 
low,  indeed,  on  the  unhappy  gentleman’s  account,  but 
for  the  recollection  of  the  baby ; which  afforded  him 
such  intent  satisfaction  whenever  it  arose,  that  he 
laughed  aloud  as  he  went  along  the  street,  and,  indeed, 
more  than  once,  in  a sudden  impulse  of  joy,  threw  up 
his  glazed  hat  and  caught  it  again  ; much  to  the  amaze- 
ment of  the  spectators.  The  ra.pid  alternations  of  light 
and  shade  to  which  these  two  conflicting  subjects  of  re- 
flection exposed  the  captain,  were  so  very  trying  to  his 
spirits,  that  Ire  felt  a long  walk  necessary  to  his  com- 
posure ; and  as  there  is  a great  deal  in  the  influence  of 
harmonious  associations,  he  chose,  for  the  scene  of  this 
walk,  his  old  neighbourhood,  down  among  the  mast,  oar, 
and  block-makers,  ship-biscuit  bakers,  coal- whippers, 
pitch- kettles,  sailors,  canals,  docks,  swing-bridges,  and 
other  soothing  objects. 

These  peaceful  scenes,  and  particularly  the  region  of 
Limeho  use -Hole  and  thereabouts,  were  so  influential  in 
calming  the  captain,  that  he  walked  on  with  restored 
tranquillity,  and  was,  in  fact,  regaling  himself,  under  his 
breath,  with  the  ballad  of  Lovely  Peg,  when,  on  turning 
a corner,  he  was  suddenly  transfixed  and  rendered 
speechless  by  a triumphant  procession  that  he  beheld 
advancing  towards  him. 

This  awful  demonstration  was  headed  by  that  deter- 
mined woman  Mrs.  MacStinger,  who,  preserving  a coun- 
tenance of  inexorable  resolution,  and  wearing  conspicu- 
ously attached  to  her  obdurate  bosom  a stupendous 
watch  and  appendages,  which  the  captain  recognised  at 
a glance  as  the  property  of  Bunsby,  conducted  under  her 
arm  no  other  than  that  sagacious  mariner  ; he,  with  the 
distraught  and  melancholy  visage  of  a captive  borne  into 
a foreign  land,  meekly  resigning  himself  to  her  will. 
Behind  them  appeared  the  young  MacStingers,  in  a 
body,  exulting.  Behind  them  two  ladies  of  a terrible 
and  stedfast  aspect,  leading  between  them,  a short  gen- 
tleman in  a tall  hat,  who  likewise  exulted.  In  the 
wake,  appeared  Bunsby ’s  boy,  bearing  umbrellas.  The 
whole  were  in  a good  marching  order  ; and  a dreadful 
smartness  that  pervaded  the  party  would  have  sufficient- 
ly announced,  if  the  intrepid  countenances  of  the  ladies 
had  been  wanting,  tliat  it  was  a procession  of  sacrifice, 
and  that  the  victim  was  Bunsby, 


564 


WOEKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


The  first  impulse  of  the  captain  was  to  run  away. 
This  also  appeared  to  he  the  first  impulse  of  Bunsby, 
hopeless  as  its  execution  must  have  proved.  But  a cry 
of  recognition  proceeding  from  the  party,  and  Alexander 
MacStinger  running  up  to  the  captain  with  open  arms, 
the  captain  strucJi. 

Well,  Cap’en  Cuttle  ! ” said  Mrs.  MacStinger.  This 
Is  indeed  a meeting ! I bear  no  malice  now.  Cap’en 
Cuttle — ^you  needn’t  fear  that  I’m  going  to  cast  any  re- 
flections. I hope  to  go  to  the  altar  in  another  spirit.  ” 
Here  Mrs.  MacStinger  paused,  and  drawing  herself  up, 
and  inflating  her  bosom  with  a long  breath,  said,  in  al- 
lusion to  the  victim,  "‘My  usband,  Cap’en  Cuttle  !” 

The  abject  Bunsby  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  to 
the  left,  nor  at  his  bride,  nor  at  his  friend,  but  straight 
before  him  at  nothing.  The  captain  putting  out  his 
hand,  Bunsby  put  out  his  ; but,  in  answer  to  the  cap- 
tain’s greeting,  spake  no  word. 

“ Cap’en  Cuttle,”  said  Mrs.  MacStinger,  '‘if  you  would 
wish  to  heal  up  past  animosities,  and  to  see  the  last  oi 
your  friend,  my  usband,  as  a single  person,  we  should 
be  appy  of  your  company  to  chapel.  Here  is  a lady 
here,”  said  Mrs.  MacStinger,  turning  round  to  the  more 
intrepid  of  ihe  two,  " my  bridesmaid,  that  will  be  glad 
of  your  protection,  Cap’en  Cuttle.” 

The  short  gentleman  in  the  tall  hat,  who  it  appeared 
was  the  husband  of  the  other  lady,  and  who  evidently 
exulted  at  the  reduction  of  a fellovz-creature  to  his  own 
conditi®n,  gave  place  at  this,  and  resigned  the  lady  to 
Captain  Cuttle.  The  lady  immediately  seized  him,  and, 
observing  that  there  was  no  time  to  lose,  gave  the  word, 
in  a strong  voice,  to  advance. 

The  eaptain’s  concern  for  his  friend,  not  unmingled,  at 
first,  with  some  concern  for  himself — for  a shadowy  ter- 
ror that  he  might  be  married  by  violence,  possessed  him, 
until  his  knowledge  of  the  service  came  to  his  relief, 
and  remembering  the  legal  obligation  of  saying,  ‘‘I 
will,”  he  felt  himself  personally  safe  so  long  as  he  re- 
solved, if  asked  any  question,  distinctly  to  reply,  “ I 
won’t,” — thr-ew  him  into  a profuse  perspiration  ; and 
rendered  him,  for  a time,  insensible  to  the  movements 
of  the  procession,  of  which  he  now  formed  a feature, 
and  to  the  conversation  of  his  fair  companion.  But  as 
he  became  less  agitated,  he  learnt  from  this  lady  that 
she  was  the  widow  of  a Mr.  Bokum,  who  had  held  an 
employment  in  the  Custom  House  ; that  she  was  the 
dearest  friend  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  whom  she  considered 
a pattern  for  her  sex  ; that  she  had  often  heard  of  the 
captain,  and  now  hoped  he  had  repented  of  his  past  life  • 
that  she  trusted  Mr.  Bunsby  knew  what  a blessing  he 
had  gained,  but  that  she  feared  men  seldom  did  know 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


565 


what  such  blessings  were,  until  they  had  lost  them  ; 
with  more  to  the  same  purpose. 

All  this  time,  the  captain  could  not  but  observe  that 
Mrs.  Bokum  kept  her  eyes  steadily  on  the  bridegroom, 
and  that  whenever  they  came  near  a court  or  other  nar- 
row  turning  which  appeared  favourable  for  flight,  she 
was  on  the  alert  to  cut  him  off  if  he  attempted  to  escapCo 
The  other  lady,  too,  as  well  as  her  husband,  the  short 
gentleman  with  the  tall  hat,  were  plainly  on  guard,  ac- 
cording to  a preconcerted  plan  ; and  the  wretched  man 
was  so  secured  by  Mrs.  MacStinger,  that  any  effort  at  self- 
preservation  by  flight  was  rendered  futile.  This,  indeed, 
was  apparent  to  the  mere  populace,  who  expressed  their 
perception  of  the  fact  by  jeers  and  cries  ; to  all  of  which, 
the  dread  MacStinger  was  inflexibly  indifferent,  while 
Bunsby  himself  appeared  in  a state  of  unconscious- 
ness. 

The  Captain  made  many  attempts  to  accost  the  phi- 
losopher, if  only  in  a monosyllable  or  a signal : but 
always  failed,  in  consequence  of  the  vigilance  of  the 
guard,  and  the  difficulty,  at  all  times  peculiar  to  Bunsby’s 
constitution,  of  having  his  attention  aroused  by  any  out- 
ward and  visible  sign  whatever.  Thus  they  approached 
the  chapel,  a neat,  whitev»^ashed  edifice,  recently  en- 
gaged by  the  Reverend  Melchisedech  Howler,  who  had 
consented,  on  very  urgent  solicitation,  to  give  the  world 
another  two  years  of  existence,  but  had  informed  his 
followers  that,  then,  it  must  positively  go. 

While  the  Reverend  Melchisedech  was  offering  up 
some  extemporary  orisons,  the  captain  found  an  opportu- 
nity of  growling  in  the  bridegroom’s  ear  : 

What  cheer,  my  lad,  what  cheer?” 

To  which  Bunsby  replied,  with  a forgetfulness  of  the 
Reverend  Melchisedech,  which  nothing  but  his  desperate 
circumstances  could  have  excused  : 
bad.” 

“Jack  Bunsby,”  whispered  the  captain,  “do  you  do 
this  here,  o’  your  own  free  will  ? ” 

Mr.  Bunsby  answered  “No.” 

“Why  do  you  do  it,  then,  my  lad?  ” inquired  the  cap«= 
tain,  not  unnaturally. 

Bunsby,  still  looking,  and  always  looking  with  an  imo 
movable  countenance,  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  world, 
made  no  reply. 

“ Why  not  sheer  off  ?”  said  the  captain. 

“ Eh  ? ” whispered  Bunsby,  with  a momentary  gleam 
of  hope. 

“ Sheer  off,”  said  the  captain. 

“Where’s  the  good?”  retorted  the  forlorn  sage. 
“She’d  capter  me  again/^ 


566  WORKS  OK  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

''Try?”  replied  the  captain.  "Cheer  up!  Come! 
Now’s  your  time.  Sheer  off,  Jack  Bunsby  ?” 

Jack  Bunsby,  however,  instead  of  profiting  by  the 
advice,  said  in  a doleful  whisper  : 

‘‘It  all  began  in  that  there  chest  o’  your’n.  Why  did 
I ever  conwoy  her  into  port  that  night  ? ” 

‘‘  My  lad,”  faltered  the  captain,  ‘‘  I thought  as  you  had 
come  over  her  ; not  as  she  had  come  over  you.  A man 
as  has  got  such  opinions  as  you  have  ! ” 

Mr.  Bunsby  merely  uttered  a suppressed  groan. 

" Come  ! ” said  the  captain,  nudging  him  with  his 
®lbow,  " now’s  your  time  ! Sheer  off  ! I’ll  cover  your 
retreat.  The  time’s  a flying.  Bunsby  ! It’s  for  libertyc 
Will  you  once  ? ” 

Bunsby  was  immovable. 

" Bunsby  I ” whispered  the  captain,  " will  you  twice  ?” 

Bunsby  wouldn’t  twice. 

‘‘  Bunsby  1”  urged  the  captain,  " it’s  for  liberty  ; will 
you  three  times?  Now  or  never  1 ” 

Bunsby  didn’t  then,  and  didn’t  ever;  for  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger  immediately  afterwards  married  him. 

One  of  the  most  frightful  circumstances  of  the  cere- 
inony  to  the  captain,  was  the  deadly  interest  exhibited 
therein  by  Juliana  MacStinger ; and  the  ^atal  concentra- 
tion of  her  faculties,  with  which  that  promising  child, 
already  the  image  of  her  parent,  observed  the  whole  pro- 
ceedings. The  captain  saw  in  this  a succession  of  man- 
traps  stretching  out  infinitely  ; a series  of  ages  of 
oppression  and  coercion,  through  which  the  seafaring 
line  was  doomed.  It  was  a more  memorable  sight  than 
the  unflinching  steadiness  of  Mrs.  Bokum  and  the  other 
lady,  the  exultation  of  the  short  gentleman  in  the  tall 
hat,  or  even  the  fell  inflexibility  of  Mrs.  MacStinger. 
The  Master  MacStingers  understood  little  of  what  was 
going  on,  and  cared  less,  being  chiefly  engaged,  during 
the  ceremony,  in  treading  on  one  another’s  half  boots ; 
but  the  contrast  afforded  by  those  wretched  infants 
only  set  off  and  adorned  the  precocious  woman  in 
Juliana.  Another  year  or  two,  the  captain  thought 
and  to  lodge  where  that  child  was,  would  be  destruc- 
tion. 

The  ceremony  was  concluded  by  a general  spring  of 
the  young  family  on  Mr.  Bunsby,  whom  they  hailed  by 
the  endearing  name  of  father,  and  from  whom  they  so- 
licited halfpence.  These  gushes  of  affection  over,  the 
profession  was  about  to  issue  forth  again,  when  it  was 
delayed  for  some  little  time  by  an  unexpected  transport 
on  the  part  of  Alexander  MacStinger.  That  dear  child, 
it  seemed,  connecting  a chapel  with  tombstones,  when  it 
was  entered  for  purpose  apart  from  the  ordinary  re- 
ligious exercises,  could  not  be  persuaded  but  that  his 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


567 


mother  was  now  to  be  decently  interred,  and  lost  to  him 
for  ever.  In  the  anguish  of  this  conviction,  he  screamed 
with  astonishing  force,  and  turned  black  in  the  face. 
However  touching  these  marks  of  a tender  disposition 
were  to  his  mother,  it  was  not  in  the  character  of  that 
remarkable  woman  to  permit  her  recognition  of  them  to 
degenerate  into  weakness.  Therefore,  after  vainly  en- 
deavouring to  convince  his  reason  by  shakes,  pokes, 
bawlings-out,  and  similar  applications  to  his  head,  she 
led  him  into  the  air,  and  tried  another  method  ; which 
was  manifested  to  the  marriage  party  by  a quick  succes- 
sion of  sharp  sounds,  resembling  applause,  and  subse- 
quently, by  their  seeing  Alexander  in  contact  with  the 
coolest  paving-stone  in  the  court,  greatly  flushed,  and 
loudly  lamenting. 

The  procession  being  then  in  a condition  to  form  itself 
once  more  and  repair  to  Brig  Place,  where  a marriage 
feast  was  in  readiness,  returned  as  it  had  come  ; not  with* 
out  the  receipt,  by  Bunsby,  of  many  humourous  congra- 
tulations from  the  populace  on  his  recently-acquired 
happiness.  The  captain  accompanied  it  as  far  as  the 
house-door,  but,  being  made  uneasy  by  the  gentler  man- 
ner of  Mrs.  Bokum,  who,  now  that  she  was  relieved  from 
her  engrossing  duty — for  the  watchfulness  and  alacrity  of 
the  ladies  sensibly  diminished  when  the  bridegroom  was 
safely  married — had  greater  leisure  to  show  an  interest 
in  his  behalf,  there  left  it  and  the  captive  ; faintly  plead- 
ing an  appointment,  and  promising  to  return  presently^ 
The  captain  had  another  cause  for  uneasiness,  in  remorse  ^ 
fully  reflecting  that  he  had  been  the  first  means  of  Buns^ 
by's  entrapment,  though  certainly  without  intending  it, 
and  through  his  unbounded  faith  in  the  resources  of  that 
philosopher. 

To  go  back  to  old  Sol  Gills  at  the  Wooden  Midship- 
man’s, and  not  first  go  round  to  ask  how  Mr.  Dombey 
was — albeit  the  house  where  he  lay  was  out  of  London, 
and  away  oa  the  borders  of  a fresh  heath — was  quite  out 
of  the  captain’s  course.  So  he  got  a lift  when  he  was 
tired,  and  made  out  the  journey  gaily. 

The  blinds  were  pulled  down,  and  the  house  so  quiet, 
that  the  captain  was  almost  afraid  to  knock  ; but  listen^ 
ing  at  the  door,  he  heard  low  voices,  within,  very  near  it, 
and,  knocking  softly,  was  admitted  by  Mr.  Toots.  Mr. 
Toots  and  his  wife  had,  in  fact,  just  arrived  there  ; hav- 
ing been  at  the  Midshipman’s  to  seek  him,  and  having 
there  obtained  the  address. 

They  were  not  so  recently  arrived,  but  that  Mrs.  Toots 
had  caught  the  baby  from  somebody,  taken  it  in  her  arms, 
and  sat  down  on  the  stairs,  hugging  and  fondling  it. 
Florence  was  stooping  down  beside  her ; and  no  one  could 
have  said  which  Mrs.  Toots  was  hugging  and  fondling 


668 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


most,  tne  mother  or  the  child,  or  which  was  the  tenderer, 
Florence  of  Mrs.  Toots,  or  Mrs.  Toots  of  her,  or  both  of 
the  baby  ; it  was  such  a little  group  of  love  and  agitation. 

''  And  is  your  Pa  very  ill,  my  darling  dear  Miss  Floy?'' 
asked  Susan. 

‘‘He  is  very,  very  ill,"  said  Florence.  “But  Susan 
dear,  you  must  not  speak  to  me  as  you  used  to  speak. 
And  what's  this  ? " said  Florence,  touching  her  clothes, 
in  amazement.  “ Your  old  dress,  dear?  Your  old  cap, 
curls,  and  all  ? " 

Susan  burst  into  tears,  and  showered  kisses  on  the  lit- 
tle hand  that  had  touched  her  so  wonderingly. 

“ My  dear  Miss  Hombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  stepping  for- 
ward,  “ I’ll  explain.  She's  the  most  extraordinary  wo- 
man. There  are  not  many  to  equal  her  ! She  has  al- 
ways said — she  said  before  we  were  married,  and  has  said 
to  this  day,  that  whenever  you  came  home,  she’d  come 
to  you  in  no  dress  but  the  dress  she  used  to  serve  you  in, 
for  fear  she  might  seem  strange  to  you,  and  you  might 
like  her  less.  I admire  the  dress  myself,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
“of  all  things.  I adore  her  in  it  ! My  dear  Miss  Dom^ 
bey,  she'll  be  your  maid  again,  your  nurse,  all  that  she 
ever  was,  and  more.  There’s  no  change  in  her.  But 
Susan,  my  dear,”  said  Mr.  Toots,  who  had  spoken  with 
great  feeling  and  high  admiration,  “all  I ask  is,  that 
you'll  remember  the  medical  man,  and  not  exert  yourself 
too  much  ! ” 


CHAPTER  LXI. 


Florence  had  need  of  help.  Her  father's  need  of 
it  was  sore,  and  made  the  aid  of  her  old  friend  invalua- 
ble. Death  stood  at  his  ^pillow.  A shade,  already,  of 
what  he  had  been,  shattered  in  his  mind,  and  perilously 
sick  in  body,  he  laid  his  weary  head  down  on  the  bed  his 
daughter's  hands  prepared  for  him,  and  had  never  raised 
it  since. 

She  was  always  with  him.  He  knew  her,  generally  ; 
though,  in  the  wandering  of  his  brain,  he  often  confused 
the  circumstances  under  which  he  spoke  to  her.  Thus 
he  would  address  her,  sometimes,  as  if  his  boy  were 
newly  dead ; and  would  tell  her  that  although  he  had 
said  nothing  of  her  ministering  at  the  little  bedside,  yet 
he  had  seen  it — he  had  seen  it ; and  then  would  hide  his 
face  and  sob,  and  put  out  his  worn  hand.  Sometimes 
he  would  ask  her  for  herself.  “Where  is  Florence?" 
“ I am  here,  papa,  I am  here."  “ I don't  know  her  ! " 
he  would  cry,  “We  have  been  parted  so  long,  that  I 


DOMEEY  AND  SON. 


569 


don’t  know  her  ! ” and  then  a staring  dread  would  h© 
upon  him,  until  she  could  soothe  his  perturbation;  and  re- 
cal  the  tears  she  tried  so  hard  at  other  times  to  dry. 

He  rambled  through  the  scenes  of  his  old  pursuits—, 
through  many  where  Florence  lost  him  as  she  listened— 
sometimes  for  hours.  He  would  repeat  that  childish 
question.  What  is  money  ? ” and  ponder  on  it,  and  thinly 
about  it  reason  with  himself,  more  or  less  connected- 
ly, for  a good  answer ; as  if  it  had  neve^  been  proposed 
to  him  until  that  moment.  He  would  go  on  with  a mus- 
ing repetition  of  the  title  of  his  old  firm  twenty  thousaiid 
times,  and,  at  every  one  of  them,  would  turn  his  head 
upon  his  pillow.  He  would  count  his  children — one — • 
two — stop,  and  go  back,  and  begin  again  in  the  same 
way. 

But  this  was  when  his  mind  was  in  its  most  distracted 
state.  In  all  the  other  phases  of  its  illness,  and  in  those 
to  which  it  was  most  constant;  it  always  turned  on  Flor- 
ence. What  he  would  oftenest  do  was  this  : he  would 
recal  that  night  he  had  so  recently  remembered,  the  night 
on  which  she  came  down  to  his  room,  and  would  imagine 
that  his  heart  smote  him,  and  that  he  went  out  after 
her,  and  up  the  stairs  to  seek  her.  Then,  confound- 
ing that  time  with  the  later  days  of  the  many  foot- 
steps, he  would  be  amazed  at  their  number,  and  begin 
to  count  them  as  he  followed  her.  Here,  of  a sudden, 
was  a bloody  footstep  going  on  among  the  others  : and 
after  it  there  began  to  be,  at  intervals,  doors  standing 
open,  through  which  certain  terrible  pictures  were  seen, 
in  mirrors,  of  haggard  men,  concealing  something  in 
their  breasts.  Still,  among  the  many  footsteps  and  the 
bloody  footsteps  here  and  there,  was  the  step  of  Flor- 
ence. Still  she  was  going  on  before.  Still  the  restless 
mind  went,  following  and  counting,  ever  farther,  ever 
higher,  as  to  the  summit  of  a mighty  tower  that  it  took 
years  to  climb. 

One  day  he  inquired  if  that  were  not  Susan  who  had 
spoken  a long  v/hile  ago. 

Florence  said,  Yes,  dear  papa ; ” and  asked  him  would 
he  like  to  see  her? 

He  said,  Very  much.”  And  Susan,  with  no  little  trep- 
idation, showed  herself  at  his  bedside. 

It  seemed  a great  relief  to  him.  He  begged  her  not  to 
go  ; to  understand  that  he  forgave  her  what  she  had 
said  ; and  that  she  was  to  stay.  Florence  and  he  were 
very  different  now,  he  said,  and  very  happy.  Let  her 
look  at  this  ! He  meant  his  drawing  the  gentle  head 
down  to  his  pillow,  and  laying  it  beside  him. 

He  remained  like  this  for  days  and  weeks.  At  lengthy 
lying  the  faint  feeble  semblance  of  a man,  upon  his  bed. 


570  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

and  speaking  in  a voice  so  low  that  they  could  only  heai 
him  by  listening  very  near  to  his  lips,  he  became  quiet. 
It  was  dimly  pleasant  to  him  now,  to  lie  there,  with 
the  window  open,  looking  out  at  the  summer  sky  and 
the  trees  : and,  in  the  evening,  at  the  sunset.  To  watch 
the  shadows  of  the  clouds  and  leaves,  and  seem  to  feel 
a sympathy  with  shadows.  It  was  natural  that  he 
should.  To  him,  life  and  the  world  were  nothing  else. 

He  began  to  show  now  that  he  thought  of  Florence’s 
fatigue  ; and  often  taxed  his  weakness  to  whisper  to  her, 
“ Go  and  walk,  my  dearest,  in  the  sweet  air.  Go  to  your 
good  husband  ! ” One  time  when  Walter  was  in  his 
room,  he  beckoned  him  to  come  near,  and  to  stoop  down : 
and  pressing  his  hand,  whispered  an  assurance  to  him 
that  he  knew  he  could  trust  him  with  his  child  when  he 
was  dead. 

It  chanced  ,one  evening,  tow^ards  sunset,  when  Flor? 
ence  and  Walter  were  sitting  in  his  room  together,  as  he 
liked  to  see  them,  that  Florence,  having  her  baby  in  her 
arms,  began  in  a low  voice  to  sing  to  the  little  fellow, 
and  sang  the  old  tune  she  had  so  often  sung  to  the  dead 
child.  He  could  not  bear  it  at  the  time  ; he  held  up  his 
trembling  hand,  imploring  her  to  stop  ; but  next  day  he 
asked  her  to  repeat  it,  and  to  do  so  often  of  an  even^ 
ing  : which  she  did.  He  listening,  with  his  face  turned 
away. 

Florence  was  sitting  on  a certain  time  by  his  window, 
w ith  her  work-basket  between  her  and  her  old  attendant, 
who  was  still  her  faithful  companion.  He  had  fallen 
into  a doze.  It  was  a beautiful  evening,  with  two  hours 
of  light  to  come  yet ; and  the  tranquillity  and  quiet  made 
Florence  very  thoughtful.  She  was  lost  to  everything 
for  the  moment,  but  the  occasion  when  the  so  altered 
figure  on  the  bed  had  first  presented  her  to  her  beautiful 
mama  ; when  a touch  from  Walter  leaning  on  the  back 
of  her  chair,  made  her  start. 

My  dear,”  said  Walter,  “there  is  some  one  down- 
stairs who  wishes  to  speak  to  you.” 

She  fancied  Walter  looked  grave,  and  asked  him  if 
anything  had  happened. 

“ No,  no,  my  love  ! ” said  Walter.  “ I have  seen  the 
gentleman  myself,  and  spoken  with  him.  Nothing  has 
happened.  Will  you  come  ? ” 

Plorence  put  her  arm  through  his ; and  confiding  hes 
father  to  the  black-eyed  Mrs.  Toots,  who  sat  as  brisk  and 
smart  at  her  work  as  black-eyed  woman  could,  accom- 
panied her  husband  down-stairs.  In  the  pleasant  little 
parlour  opening  on  the  garden,  sat  a gentleman,  who 
rose  to  advance  towards  her  when  she  came  in,  but 
turned  off,  by  reason  of  some  peculiarity  in  his  legs,  and 
was  only  stopped  by  the  table. 


DOMBEY  XND  SON. 


571 


Florence  tiien  remembered  Cousin  Feenix,  whom  she 
had  not  at  first  recognised  in  the  shade  of  the  leaves^ 
Cousin  Feenix  took  her  hand,  and  congratulated  hei 
upon  her  marriage. 

E could  have  wished,  I am  sure,’’  said  Cousin  Feenix, 
sitting  down  as  Florence  sat,  to  have  had  an  earlier 
opportunity  of  offering  my  congratulations ; but,  in 
point  of  fact,  so  many  painful  occurrences  have  happen- 
ed, treading,  as  a man  may  say,  on  one  another’s  heels, 
that  I have  been  in  a devil  of  a state  myself,  and  per- 
fectly unfit  for  every  description  of  society.  The  only 
description  of  society  I have  kept,  has  been  my  own  ; 
and  it  certainly  is  anything  but  flattering  to  a man’s 
good  opinion  of  his  own  resources,  to  know  that,  in  point 
of  fact,  he  has  the  capacity  of  boring  himself  to  a per- 
fectly unlimited  extent.” 

Florence  divined  from  some  indefinable  constraint  and 
anxiety  in  this  gentleman’s  manner — which  was  always 
a gentleman’s,  in  spite  of  the  harmless  little  eccentrici- 
ties that  attached  to  it — and  from  Walter’s  manner  no 
less,  that  something  more  immediately  tending  to  some 
object  was  to  follow  this. 

I have  been  mentioning  to  my  friend  Mr.  Gay,  if  I 
may  be  allowed  to  have  the  honour  of  calling  him  so,” 
said  Cousin  Feenix,  that  I am  rejoiced  to  hear  that  my 
friend  Dombey  is  very  decidedly  mending.  I trust  my 
friend  Dombey  will  not  allow  his  mind  to  be  too  much 
preyed  upon,  by  any  mere  loss  of  fortune.  I cannot  say 
that  I have  ever  experienced  any  very  great  loss  of  for- 
tune myself : never  having  had,  in  point  of  fact,  any 
great  amount  of  fortune  to  lose.  But  as  much  as  I 
could  lose,  I have  lost ; and  I don’t  find  that  I particu- 
larly care  about  it.  I know  my  friend  Dombey  to  be  a 
devilish  honourable  man  ; and  it’s  calculated  to  console 
niy  friend  Dombey  very  much,  to  know,  that  this  is  the 
universal  sentiment.  Even  Tommy  Screwger, — man  of 
an  extremely  bilious  habit,  with  whom  niy  friend  Gay 
is  probably  acquainted — cannot  say  a syllfeble[in  disputa- 
tion of  the  fact.” 

Florence  felt  more  than  ever,  that  there  was  something 
to  come  : and  looked  earnestly  for  it.  So  earnestly, 
that  Cousin  Feenix  answered,  as  if  she  had  spoken. 

‘‘The  fact  is,”  said  Cousin  Feenix,  “ that  my. friend 
Gay  and  myself  have  been  discussing  the  propriety  of 
entreating  a favour  at  your  hands  ; and  that  I have  the 
consent  of  my  friend  Gay — who  h as  met  me  in  an  ex- 
ceedingly kind  and  open  manner,  for  which  I am  very 
much  indebted  to  him — to  sojicit  it.  I am  sensible  that 
so  amiable  a lady  as  the  lovely  and  accomplished  daugh- 
ter of  my  friend  Dombey  will  not  require  much  urging  ; 
but  I am  happy  to  know,  that  I am  supported  by  my 


572 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


friend  Gay’s  influence  and  approval.  As  in  my  parlia- 
mentary time,  when  a man  had  a motion  to  make  of  any 
sort — -which  happened  seldom  in  those  days,  for  we 
were  kept  very  tight  in  hand,  the  leaders  on  both  sides 
being  regular  martinets,  which  was  a devilish  good  thing 
for  the  rank  and  file,  like  myself,  and  prevented  our 
exposing  ourselves  continually,  as  a great  many  of  us 
had  a feverish  anxiety  to  do — as,  in  my  parliamentary 
time,  I was  about  to  say,  when  a man  had  leave  to  let  oft 
any  little  private  pop-gun,  it  was  always  considered  a 
great  point  for  him  to  say  that  he  had  the  happiness  of 
believing  that  his  sentiments  were  not  without  an  echo 
in  the  breast  of  Mr,  Pitt ; the  pilot,  in  point  of  fact,  who 
had  weathered  the  storm.  Upon  which  a devilish  large 
number  of  fellows  immediately  cheered,  and  put  him  in 
spirits.  Though  the  fact  is,  that  these  fellows,  being 
under  orders  to  cheer  most  excessively  whenever  Mr. 
Pitt’s  name  was  mentioned,  became  so  proficient  that  it 
always  woke  ’em.  And  they  were  so  entirely  innocent 
of  what  was  going  on,  otherwise,  that  it  used  to  be  com- 
monly said  by  Conversation  Brown — four-bottle  man  at 
the  Treasury  board,  with  whom  the  father  of  my  friend 
Gay  was  probably  acquainted,  for  it  was  before  tuy 
friend  Gay’s  time—that  if  a man  had  risen  in  his  place 
md  said  that  he  regretted  to  inform  the  house  that  there 
was  an  honourable  member  in  the  last  stage  of  convul- 
sions in  the  Lobby,  and  that  the  honourable  member’s 
name  was  Pitt,  the  approbation  would  have  been  vocif- 
erous. ’ ’ 

This  postponement  of  the  point  put  Florence  in  a flut- 
ter ; and  she  looked  from  Cousin  Feenix  to  Walter,  in 
increasing  agitation. 

‘‘My  love,”  said  Walter,  “ there  is  nothing  the  mat- 
;l5er.” 

“ Therd  is  nothing  the  matter,  upon  my  honour,”  said 
Cousin  Feenix  ; “ and  I am  deeply  distressed  at  being 
the  means  of  causing  you  a moment’s  uneasiness.  I beg 
to  assure  you  that  there  is  nothing  the  matter.  The  fa- 
vour that  I have  to  ask  is,  simply — hut  it  really  does 
seem  so  exceeding  singular,  that  I should  be  in  the  last 
degree  obliged  to  my  friend  Gay  if  he  would  have  the 
goodness  to  break  the — in  point  of  fact,  the  ice,”  said 
Cousin  Feenix. 

Walter  thus  appealed  to,  and  appealed  to  no  less  in 
the  look  that  Florence  turned  towards  him,  said  : 

“ My  dearest,  it  is  no  more  than  this.  That  you  will 
ride  to  London  with  this  gentleman,  whom  you  know.” 

“ And  my  friend  Gay,  also — I beg  your  pardon  I”  in- 
terrupted Cousin  Feenix. 

“ — And  with  me — -and  make  a visit  somewhere.” 


DGMBEY  AND  SON. 


573 


'*To  wliom  ? asked  Florence,  looking-  from  one  to 
the  other. 

If  I might  entreat,'"  said  Cousiii  Feenix,  ‘‘that  you 
would  not  press  for  an  answer  to  that  question,  I would 
'Venture  to  take  the  liberty  of  making  the  request." 

Do  you  know,  Walter?"  said  Florence. 

“Yes." 

‘‘And  think  it  right?" 

“Yes.  Only  because  I am  sure  that  you  would,  too. 
Though  there  may  be  reasons  I very  well  understand, 
which  make  it  better  that  nothing  more  should  be  said 
beforehand." 

“ If  papa  is  still  asleep,  or  can  spare  me  if  he  is  awake, 
II  will  go  immediately,"  said  Florence.  And  rising  quiet- 
ly, and  glancing  at  them  with  a look  that  was  a little 
farmed,  but  perfectly  confiding,  left  the  room. 

When  she  came  back,  ready  to  bear  them  company, 
they  were  talking  together,  gravely,  at  the  window  ; 
and  Florence  could  not  but  wonder  what  the  topic  was, 
that  had  made  them  so  well  acquainted  in  so  short  a 
time.  She  did  not  wonder  at  the  look  of  pride  and  love 
with  which  her  husband  broke  off  as  she  entered  ; for 
she  never  saw  him,  but  that  rested  on  her. 

“ I will  leave,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  “ a card  for  my 
friend  Dombey,  sincerely  trusting  that  he  will  pick  up 
health  and  strength  with  every  returning  hour.  And  I 
hope  my  friend  Dombey  wdll  do  me  the  favour  to  con- 
sider me  a man  who  has  a devilish  warm  admiration  of 
his  character,  as,  in  point  of  fact,  a British  merchant  and 
a devilish  upright  gentleman.  My  place  in  the  country 
is  in  a most  confounded  state  of  dilapidation,  but  if  my 
friend  Dombey  should  require  a change  of  air,  and  would 
take  up  his  quarters  there,  he  would  find  it  a remarkably 
healthy  spot — as  it  need  be,  for  it's  amazingly  dull.  If 
my  friend  Dombey  suffers  from  bodily  w^eakness,  and 
would  allow  me  to  recommend  what  has  frequently  done 
myself  good,  as  a man  who  has  been  extremely  queer  at 
times,  and  who  lived  pretty  freely  in  the  days  when  men 
lived  very  freely,  I should  say,  let  it  be  in  point  of  fact 
the  yolk  of  an  egg,  beat  up  with  sugar  and  nutmeg,  in  a 
glass  of  sherry,  and  taken  in  the  morning  with  a slice  of 
dry  toast.  Jackson,  who  kept  the  boxing- rooms  in  Bond- 
street  —man  of  very  superior  qualifications,  wnth  whose 
reputation  my  friend  Gay  is  no  doubt  acquainted— used 
to  mention  that  in  training  for  the  ring  they  substituted 
rum  for  sherry.  I should  recommend  sherry  in  this 
©ase,  on  account  of  my  friend  Dombey  being  in  an  inva- 
lided condition  ; which  might  occasion  rum  to  fly — in 
point  of  fact  to  his  head — and  throw  him  into  a devil  of 
a state." 

Of  all  this,  Cousin  Feenix  delivered  himself  with  an 


574 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DIOKENH. 


Dl>viously  nervous  and  discomposed  air.  Then,  giving 
his  arm  to  Florence,  and  putting  ^le  strongest  possible 
eonstraint  upon  his  wilful  legs,  which  seemed  deter- 
mined to  go  out  into  the  garden,  he  led  her  to  the  door, 
and  handed  her  into  a carriage  that  was  ready  tor  hej 
reception. 

Walter  entered  after  him,  and  they  drove  away. 

Their  ride  was  six  or  eight  miles  long.  When  they 
drove  through  certain  dull  and  stately  streets,  lying 
westward  in  London,  it  was  growing  dusk.  Florence 
had,  by  this  time,  put  her  hand  in  Walter's  ; and  was 
looking  very  earnestly,  and  with  increasing  agitation, 
into  every  new  street  into  which  they  turned.  When 
the  carriage  stopped,  at  last,  before  that  house  in  Brooks 
street,  where  her  father’s  unhappy  marriage  had  been 
celebrated,  Florence  said,  “ Walter,  what  is  this?  Who 
is  here?"  Walter  cheering  her,  and  not  replying,  she 
glanced  up  at  the  house-front  and  saw  that  all  the  win- 
dows  were  shut,  as  if  it  were  uninhabited.  Cousin  Fee- 
nix  had  by  this  time  alighted,  and  was  otfering  his 
hand. 

Are  you  not  coming,  Walter  ? " 

‘‘No,  I will  remain  here.  Don't  trentble  ! there  is 
nothing  to  fear,  dearest  Florence." 

“ I know  that,  Walter,  with  you  so  near.  I am  sure 
of  that,  but — " 

The  door  was  softly  opened,  without  any  knock,  and 
Cousin  Feenix  led  her  out  of  the  summer  evening  air  in- 
to the  close  dull  house.  More  sombre  and  brov/n  than 
ever,  it  seemed  to  have  been  shut  up  from  the  wedding- 
day,  and  to  have  hoarded  darkness  and  sadness  ever 
since . 

Florence  ascended  the  dusky  staircase,  trembling  ; and 
stopped  with  her  conductor  at  the  drawing-room  door. 
He  opened  it,  without  speaking,  and  signed  an  entreaty 
to  her  to  advance  into  the  inner  room,  while  he  remained 
there.  Florence,  after  hesitating  an  instant,  complied. 

Sitting  by  the  window  at  a table,  where  she  seemed  td 
have  been  writing  or  dravnng,  was  a lady,  whose  head, 
turned  away  towards  the  dying  light,  was  resting  on  her 
hand.  Florence  advancing,  doubtfully,  all  at  once  stood 
still,  as  if  she  had  lost  the  power  of  motion.  The  lady 
turned  her  head. 

“ Great  Heaven  ! " she  said,  “ what  is  this  ? " 

“ No,  no  ! " cried  Florence,  shrinking  back  as  she  rose 
up,  and  putting  out  her  hands  to  keep  her  off.  “ Mama  ! " 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other.  Passion  and  pride 
had  worn  it,  but  it  was  the  face  of  Edith,  and  beautiful 
and  stately  yet.  It  was  the  face  of  Florence,  and 
through  all  the  terrified  avoidance  it  expressed,  there 
was  inty  in  it,  sorrow,  a grateful  tender  memory.  On 


“no,  no  ! ” CRIED  FLORENCE,  SHRINKING  BACK  AS  SHE  ROSE 
UP,  AND  PUTTING  OUT  HER  HANDS  TO  KEEP  HER 
OFF.  “ MAMMA  ! ” 

“-JDombey  and  Son,  Vol.  Twelve,  page  575, 


676 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


sach  face, wonder  and  fear  were  painted  vividly;  each,  so 
still  and  silent,  looking  at  the  other  over  the  black  gulf 
of  the  irrevocable  past. 

Florence  was  the  first  to  change.  Bursting  into  tears, 
she  said,  from  her  full  heart,  ‘‘Oh  mama,  mama  ! why 
do  we  meet  like  this  ? Why  were  you  ever  kind  to  me 
when  there  was  no  one  else,  that  we  should  meet  like 
this  ? ” 

Edith  stood  before  her,  dumb  and  motionless.  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  face. 

“ I dare  not  think  of  that,”  said  Florence,  “lam  come 
from- papa’s  sick  bed.  We  are  never  asunder  now  ; we 
never  shall  be,  any  more.  If  you  would  have  me  ask  his 
pardon,  I will  do  it,  mama.  I am  almost  sure  he  will 
grant  it  now,  if  I ask  him.  May  Heaven  grant  it  to  you, 
too,  and  comfort  you  ! ” 

Bhe  answered  not  a word. 

“Walter — I am  married  to  him,  and  we  have  a 
son  ” — said  Florence,  timidly,  “is  at  the  door,  and  has 
brought  me  here.  I will  tell  him  that  you  are  repent- 
ant ; that  you  are  changed,”  said  Florence,  looking 
mournfully  upon  her  ; “ and  he  will  speak  to  papa  with 
me,  I know.  Is  there  anything  but  this  that  I can  do  ?” 

Edith,  breaking  her  silence,  without  moving  eye  or 
limb,  answered  slowly  : 

“ The  stain  upon  your  name,  upon  your  husband’s,  ob 
your  child’s.  Will  that  ever  be  forgiven,  Florence?” 

“ Will  it  ever  be,  mama  ? It  is  ! Freely,  freely, both 
by  Walter  and  by  me.  If  that  is  any  consolation  to  you, 
there  is  nothing  that  you  may  believe  more  certainly. 
You  do  not — you  do  not,”  faltered  Florence,  “speak  of 
papa  ; but  I am  sure  you  wish  that  I should  ask  him  for 
his  forgiveness.  I am  sure  you  do,” 

She  answered  not  a word. 

“ I will ! ” said  Florence.  “ I will  bring  it  to  you, 
you  will  let  me  ; and  then,  perhaps,  we  may  take  leave  of 
^ach  other,  more  like  what  we  used  to  be  to  one  another.  I 
have  not,”  said  Florence  very  gently,  and  drawing  nearer 
to  her,  “ I have  not  shrunk  back  from  you,  mama,  be- 
cause 1 feared  you,  or  because  I dread  to  be  disgraced  by 
you.  I only  wish  to  do  my  duty  to  papa.  I am  very  dear 
to  him,  and  he  is  very  dear  to  me.  But  I never  can  for- 
get that  you  were  very  good  to  me.  Oh,  pray  to 
Heaven,”  cried  Florence,  falling  on  her  bosom,  “ pray  to 
Heaven,  mama,  to  forgive  you  all  this  sin  and  shame, 
and  to  forgive  me  if  I cannot  help  doing  this  (if  it  is 
wrong)  when  I remember  what  you  used  to  be  ! ” 

Edith,  as  if  she  fell  beneath  her  touch,  sunk  down  on 
her  knees,  and  caught  her  round  the  neck. 

“ Florence  !”  she  cried.  “My  better  angel  ! Before 
I am  mad  again,  before  my  stubbornness  comes  back  and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


577 


strikes  me  dumb,  believe  me,  upon  my  soul  I am  inno* 
cent.” 

‘‘  Mama ! ” 

Guilty  of  much  ! Guilty  of  that  which  sets  a waste 
net  ween  us  evermore.  Guilty  of  wliat  must  separate 
me,  through  the  whole  remainder  of  my  life, from  purity 
and  innocence — from  jmu,  of  all  the  earth.  Guilty  of  a 
blind  and  passionate  resentment,  of  which  I do  not,  can- 
not, will  not,  even  now,  repent  ; but  not  guilty  with 
that  dead  man.  Before  God  ! ” 

Upon  her  knees  upon  the  ground,  she  held  up  both 
her  hands  and  swore  it. 

"'Florence!”  she  said,  ‘"purest  and  best  of  natures, 
— whom  I love — who  might  have  changed  me  long  ago, 
and  did  for  a time  work  some  change  even  i n the  woman 
that  I am,-^ — believe  me,  I am  innocent  of  that ; and  once 
more,  on  my  desolate  heart,  let  me  lay  this  dear  head, 
for  the  last  time  ! ” 

She  was  moved  and  weeping.  Had  she  been  oftener 
thus  in  older  days,  she  had  been  happier  now. 

""There  is  nothing  else  in  all  the  world,”  she  said, 
""  that  would  have  wrung  denial  from  me.  No  love,  no 
hatred,  no  hope,  no  threat.  I said  that  I would  die,  and 
make  no  sign,  1 could  have  done  so,  and  I would,  if  we 
had  never  met,  Florence.” 

""  I trust,”  said  Cousin  Feenix,  ambling  in  at  the  door, 
and  speaking  half  in  the  room,  and  half  out  of  it,  ""that 
my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative  will  excuse  my 
having,  by  a little  stratagem,  effected  this  meeting.  I 
cannot  say  that  I was,  at  first,  wholly  incredulous  as  to 
the  possibility  of  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative 
having,  very  unfortunately,  committed  herself  with  the 
deceased  person  with  white  teeth  ; because,  in  point  of 
fact,  one  does  see,  in  this  world — which  is  remarkable 
for  devilish  strange  arrangements,  and  for  being  decid- 
edly the  most  unintelligible  thing  within  a man’s  expe- 
rience— very  odd  conjunctions  of  that  sort.  But,  as  I 
mentioned  to  my  friend  Dombey,  I could  not  admit  the 
criminality  of  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative  until 
it  was  perfectly  established.  And  feeling,  when  the  de- 
ceased person  was,  in  point  of  fact,  destroyed  in  a dev- 
ilish horrible  manner,  that  her  position  was  a very  painful 
one — and  feeling  besides  that  our  family  had  been  a 
little  to  blame  in  not  paying  more  attention  to  her,  and 
that  we  are  a careless  family — and  also  that  my  aunt, 
though  a devilish  lively  woman,  had  perhaps  not  been 
the  very  best  of  mothers — I took  the  liberty  of  seeking 
her  in  Prance,  and  offering  her  such  protection  as  a man 
very  much  out  at  elbows  could  offer.  Upon  which  oc- 
casion, my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative  did  me  the 
honour  to  express  that  she  believed  I was,  in  my  way, 
Yoiu.  — Y 


678 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


a devilish  good  sort  of  fellow  ; and  that  therefore  she 
put  herself  under  my  protection.  Which  in  point  oi 
fact  I understood  to  he  a Mud  thing  on  the  part  of  my 
lovely  and  accomplished  relative,  as  I am  getting  ex- 
tremely  shaky,  and  have  derived  great  comfort  from  her 
solicitude.” 

Edith,  who  had  taken  Florence  to  a sofa,  made  a ges-. 
ture  with  her  hand,  as  if  she  would  have  begged  him  to 
say  no  more. 

My  lovely  and  accomplished  relative,”  resumed  Cousin 
Feenix,  still  ambling  about  at  the  door,  "‘will  excuse 
me  if,  for  her  satisfaction,  and  my  own,  and  that  of  my 
friend  Dombey,  whose  lovely  and  accomplished  daughter 
we  so  much  admire,  I compete  the  thread  of  my  obser- 
vations. She  will  remember  that,  from  the  first,  she  and 
I have  never  alluded  to  the  subject  of  her  elop^^snt. 
My  impression,  certainly,  has  always  been,  that  there 
was  a mystery  in  the  affair  which  she  could  explain 
so  inclined.  But  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative 
being  a devilish  resolute  woman,  I knew  that  she  wa^ 
not,  in  point  of  fact,  to  be  trifled  with,  and  therefore  did 
not  involve  myself  in  any  discussions.  But,  observing 
lately,  that  her  accessible  point  did  appear  to  be  a very 
strong  description  of  tenderness  for  the  daughter  of  my 
friend  Dombey,  it  occurred  to  me  that  if  I could  bring 
about  a meeting,  unexpected  on  both  sides,  it  might  lead 
to  beneficial  results.  Therefore,  we  being  in  London,  m 
the  present  private  way  before  going  to  the  South  of 
Italy,  there  to  establish  ourselves,  in  point  of  fact,  until 
we  go  to  our  long  homes,  which  is  a devilish  disagree- 
able reflection  for  a man,  I applied  myself  to  the  discov- 
ery of  the  residence  of  my  friend  Gay — handsome  man 
of  an  uncommonly  frank  disposition,  who  is  probably 
known  to  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative — and  had 
the  happiness  of  bringing  his  amiable  wifeto  the  present 
place.  And  now,”  said  Cousin  Feenix,  with  a real  and 
genuine  earnestness  shining  through  the  levity  of  his 
manner  and  his  slipshod  speech,  I do  conjure  my  rela- 
tive, not  to  stop  half  way,  but  to  set  right,  as  far  as  she 
can,  whatever  she  has  done  wrong — not  for  the  honour 
of  her  family,  not  for  her  ov/n  fame,  not  for  any  of  those 
considerations  which  unfortunate  circumstances  have 
induced  her  to  regard,  as  hollow,  and  in  point  of  fact,  as 
approaching  to  humbug — but  because  it  is  wrong,  and 
not  right.” 

Cousin  Feenix’s  legs  consented  to  take  him  away  after 
this  ; and  leaving  them  alone  together,  he  shut  the 
door. 

Edith  remained  silent  for  some  minutes,  with  Florence 
sitting  close  beside  her.  Then  she  took  from  her  bosom 
a sealed  paper. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


579 


I debated  with  myself  a long  time,”  she  said  in  a 
low  voice,  ‘‘  whether  to  write  this  at  all,  in  case  of  dying 
Suddenly  or  by  accident,  and  feeling  the  want  of  it 
upon  me.  I have  deliberated  ever  since,  when  and  how 
to  destroy  it.  Take  it,  Florence.  The  truth  is  writt^. 
in  it.” 

Is  it  for  papa?”  asked  Florence. 

It  is  for  whom  you  will,”  she  answered.  It  i^ 
given  to  you,  and  is  obtained  by  you.  He  never  could 
have  had  it  otherwise.” 

Again  they  sat  silent  in  the  deepening  darkness. 

''  Mama,”  said  Florence,  "‘he  has  lost  his  fortune,  h^ 
has  been  at  the  point  of  death  ; he  may  not  recover,  even 
now.  Is  there  any  word  that  I shall  say  to  him  fron| 
you  ?” 

‘‘  Did  you  tell  me,”  asked  Edith,  that  you  v/ere  very 
dear  to  him  ? ” 

Yes  ! ” said  Florence  in  a thrilling  voice. 

Tell  him  I am  sorry  that  we  ever  met.” 

No  more  ? ” said  Florence  after  a pause. 

Tell  him,  if  he  asks,  that  I do  not  repent  of  what  | 
have  done — not  yet— for  if  it  were  to  do  again  to-morrow, 
I should  do  it.  But  if  he  is  a changed  man—” 

She  stopped.  There  was  something  in  the  silent 
touch  of  Florence’s  hand  that  stopped  her. 

— But  that  being  a changed  man,  he  knows,  now,  it 
would  never  be.  Tell  him  I wish  it  never  had  been.” 

May  I say,”  said  Florence,  ‘‘  that  you  grieved  to  hear 
of  the  afflictions  he  has  suffered  ? ” 

Not,”  she  replied,  if  they  have  taught  him  that  his 
daughter  is  very  dear  to  him.  He  will  not  grieve  for 
them  himself,  one  da.y,  if  they  have  brought  that  lesson, 
Florence.  ” 

'‘You  wish  well  to  him,  and  would  have  him  happy. 
I am  sure  you  would  !”  said  Florence.  “ Oh  ! let  me  b( 
able,  if  I have  the  occasion  at  some  future  time,  to  saj 
so?  ” 

Edith  sat  with  her  dark  eyes  gazing  steadfastly  before 
her,  and  did  not  reply  until  Florence  had  repeated  hej 
entreaty  ; when  she  drew  her  hand  within  her  arm,  and 
said,  with  the  same  thoughtful  gaze  upon  the  night  out 
side  : 

‘'Tell  him  that  if,  in  his  own  present,  he  can  find  an} 
reason  to  compassionate  my  past,  I sent  word  that  1 asked 
him  to  do  so.  Tell  him  that  if,  in  his  own  present,  h^ 
can  find  a reason  to  think  less  bitterly  of  me , I ask©<3 
him  to  do  so.  Tell  him  that,  dead  as  we  are  to  one  sm- 
other, never  more  to  meet  on  this  side  of  eternity,  he 
knows  there  is  one  feeling  in  common  between  us  now, 
that  there  never  was  before.” 


680 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS.  ^ 


Her  sternness  seemed  to  yield,  and  there  were  tears  in 
her  dark  eyes. 

I trust  myself  to  that, she  said,  ‘‘for  his  better 
thoughts  of  me,  and  mine  of  him.  When  he  loves  his 
Florence  most  he  will  hate  me  least.  When  he  is  most 
proud  and  happy  in  her  and  her  children,  he  will  be 
most  repentant  of  his  own  part  in  the  dark  vision  of  our 
married  life.  At  that  time,  I will  be  repentant  too — let 
him  know  it  then — and  think  that  when  I thought  so 
much  of  all  the  causes  that  had  made  me  v/hat  I was,  I 
needed  to  have  allowed  more  for  the  causes  that  had 
made  him  what  he  was.  I will  try,  then,  to  forgive  him 
his  share  of  blame.  Let  him  try  to  forgive  me  mine  ! ” 

“ Oh  mama  ! ” said  Florence.  “ How  it  lightens  my 
heart,  even  in  such  a meeting  and  parting,  to  hear  this  ! ” 
“Strange  words  in  my  own  ears,”  said  Edith,  “and 
foreign  to  the  sound  of  my  own  voice  ! But  even  if  1 had 
been  the  wretched  creature  I have  given  him  occasion  to 
believe  me,  I think  I could  have  said  them  still,  hearing 
that  you  and  he  were  very  dear  to  one  another.  Let  him, 
when  you  are  dearest,  ever  feel  that  he  is  most  forbear- 
ing in  his  thoughts  of  me — that  I am  most  forbearing 
in  my  thoughts  of  him. ! Those  are  the  last  words  I send 
him  ! Now,  good  bye,  my  life  I ” 

She  clasped  her  in  her  arms,  and  seemed  to  .pour  out 
all  her  woman's  soul  of  love  and  tenderness  at  once. 

“ This  kiss  for  your  child  I These  kisses  for  a bless- 
ing on  your  head  ! My  own  dear  Florence,  my  sweet 
girl,  farewell ! ” 

“ To  meet  again  ! ” cried  Florence. 

“ Never  again  I Never  again  ! When  you  leave  me  in 
this  dark  room, think  that  you  have  left  me  in  the  grave. 
Remember  only  that  I was  once,  and  that  I loved  you  ! ” 
And  Florence  left  her,  seeing  her  face  no  more,  but 
siccompanied  by  her  embraces  and  caresses  to  the  last. 

Cousin  Feenix  met  her  at  the  door,  and  took  her  down 
to  Walter  in  the  dingy  dining-room,  upon  whose  shoul- 
der she  laid  her  head  weeping. 

“ I am  devilish  sorry,”  said  Cousin  Feenix,  lifting  his 
wristbands  to  his  eyes  in  the  simplest  manner  possible, 
and  without  the  least  concealment,  “ that  the  lovely  and 
accomplished  daughter  of  my  friend  Dombey  and  ami- 
able wife  of  my  friend  Gay,  should  have  had  her  sensi- 
tive nature  so  very  mucli  distressed  and  cut  up  by  the 
interview  which  is  just  concluded.  But  I hope  and  trust 
I have  acted  for  the  best,  and  that  my  honourable  friend 
Dombey  will  find  his  mind  relieved  by  the  disclosures 
which  have  taken  place.  I exceedingly  lament  that  my 
friend  Dombey  should  have  got  himself,  in  point  of  fact, 
into  the  devil's  own  state  of  conglomeration  by  an  alliance 
with  our  family  ; but  am  strongly  of  opinion  that  if  it 


■ 


CAPTAIN  CUTTLE , GIVES  THEM  THE  LOVELY  PEG. 

— Dombey  and  Son,  Vol.  Twelve,  page  581. 


582  WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

hadn't  been  for  the  infernal  scoundrel  Barker — man  with 
white  teeth — everything  would  have  gone  on  pretty 
smoothly.  In  regard  to  my  relative  who  does  me  the 
honour  to  have  formed  an  uncommonly  good  opinion  of 
myself,  I can  assure  the  amiable  wife  of  my  friend  Gay, 
that  she  may  rely  on  my  being,  in  point  of  fact,  a father 
to  her.  And  in  regard  to  the  changes  of  human  life,  and 
the  extraordinary  manner  in  which  we  are  perpetually 
conducting  ourselves,  all  I can  say  is,  with  my  friend 
Shakespeare — man  who  wasn't  for  an  age  but  for  all  time, 
and  with  whom  my  friend  Gay  is  no  doubt  acquainted— 
that  it's  like  the  shadow  of  a dream." 


CHAPTER  LXII. 

Final, 

A BOTTLE  that  has  been  long  excluded  from  the  light 
of  day,  and  is  hoary  with  dust  and  cobwebs,  has  been 
brought  into  the  sunshine  ; and  the  golden  wine  within 
it  sheds  a lustre  on  the  table. 

It  is  the  last  bottle  of  the  old  Madeira. 

You  are  quite  right,  Mr.  Gills,"  says  Mr.  Dombey. 
'This  is  a very  rare  and  most  delicious  wine.'^ 

The  captain,  who  is  of  the  party, beams  with  joy.  There 
is  a very  halo  of  delight  round  his  glowing  forehead. 

“We  always  promised  ourselves,  sir,"  observed  Mr 
Gills,  “Xed  and  myself,  I mean — " 

Mr.  Dombey  nods  at  the  captain,  who  shines  more 
more  with  speechless  gratification. 

— “ that  we  would  drink  this,  one  day  or  other,  to 
Walter  safe  at  home  : though  such  a home  we  never 
thought  of.  If  you  don't  object  to  our  old  whim,  sir,  lei 
us  devote  this  first  glass  to  Walter  and  his  wife." 

"To  Walter  and  his  wife!”  says  Mr.  Dombey. 
“ Florence,  my  child  " — and  turns  to  kiss  her. 

“ To  Walter  and  his  wife  ! " says  Mr.  Toots. 

“To  Wal’r  and  his  wife!"  exclaims  the  captain. 
“ Hooroar  ! " and  the  captain  exhibiting  a strong  desire 
to  clink  his  glass  against  some  other  glass,  Mr.  Dombey, 
with  a ready  hand,  holds  out  his.  The  others  follow ; 
and  there  is  a blithe  and  merry  ringing,  as  of  a little 
peal  of  marriage  bells. 

Other  buried  wine  grows  older,  as  the  old  Madeira  dicj 
in  its  time  ; and  dust  and  cobwebs  thicken  on  the  bottles. 

Mr.  Dombey  is  a white-haired  gentleman,  whose  face 
bears  heavy  marks  of  care  and  suffering  ; but  they  are 
traces  of  a storm  that  has  passed  on  for  ever,  and  left  a 
»5lear  evening  in  its  track. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


G83 


Ambitious  projects  trouble  liim  no  more.  His  only 
pride  is  in  bis  daughter  and  her  husband.  He  has  a 
silent,  thoughtful,  quiet  manner,  and  is  always  with  his 
daughter.  Miss  Tox  is  not  un  frequently  of  the  family 
party,  and  is  quite  devoted  to  it,  and  a great  favourite. 
Her  admiration  of  her  once  stately  patron  is,  and  has 
been  ever  since  the  morning  of  her  shock  in  Princess’s* 
place,  platonic,  but  not  weakened  in  the  least. 

Nothing  has  drifted  to  him  from  the  wreck  of  his  for- 
tunes, but  a certain  annual  sum  that  comes  he  knows 
not  how,  with  an  earnest  entreaty  that  he  will  not  seek 
to  discover,  and  wdth  the  assurance  that  it  is  a debt,  and 
an  act  of  reparation.  He  has  consulted  with  his  old 
clerk  about  this,  who  is  clear  it  may  be  honourably  ac- 
cepted, and  has  no  doubt  it  arises  out  of  some  forgotten 
transaction  in  the  times  of  the  old  House. 

That  hazel -eyed  bachelor,  a bachelor  no  more,  is  mar- 
ried now,  and  to  the  sister  of  the  gray-haired  junioio 
He  visits  his  old  chief  sometimes,  but  seldom.  Ther© 
is  a reason  in  the  gray -haired  junior’s  history,  and  yet  a 
stronger  reason  in  his  name,  why  he  should  keep  retired 
from  his  old  employer  ; and  as  he  lives  v/ith  his  sister 
and  her  husband,  they  participate  in  that  retirement. 
Walter  sees  them  sometimes — Florence  too — and  the 
pleasant  house  resounds  v»^ith  profound  duets  arranged 
for  the  pianoforte  and  violoncello,  and  wdth  the  labours 
of  Harmonious  Blacksmiths. 

And  how  goes  the  Wooden  Midshipman  in  these 
changed  days  ? Why,  here  he  still  is,  right  leg  foremost, 
hard  at  work  upon  the  hackney-coaches,  and  more  on  the 
alert  than  ever,  being  newly  painted  from  his  cocked  hat 
to  his  buckled  shoes  ; and  up  above  him,  in  golden'  char- 
acters, these  names  shine  refulgent.  Gills  and  Cuttle. 

Not  another  stroke  of  business  does  the  Midshipman 
achieve  beyond  his  usual  easy  trade.  But  they  do  say, 
in  a circuit  of  some  half-mile  round  the  blue  umbrella 
in  Leadenhall  Market,  that  some  of  Mr.  Gills’s  old  in- 
vestments are  coming  out  w’onderfully  w^ell ; and  that 
instead  of  being  behind  the  time  in  those  respects,  as  he 
supposed,  he  was,  in  truth,  a little  before  it,  and  had  to 
wait  the  fulness  of  the  time  and  the  design.  The  whis- 
per is  that  Mr.  Gills’s  money  has  begun  to  turn  itself- 
and  that  it  is  turning  itself  over  and  over  pretty  briskly. 
Certain  it  is  that,  standing  at  his  shop  door,  in  his  cof- 
fee-coloured suit,  with  his  chronometer  in  his  pocket, 
and  his  spectacles  on  his  forehead,  he  don’t  appear  to 
break  his  heart  at  customers  not  coming,  but  looks  very 
jovial  and  contented,  though  full  as  misty  as  of  yore. 

As  to  his  partner.  Captain  Cuttle,  there  is  a fiction  of 
a business  in  the  captain’s  mind  which  is  better  than  any 
reality.  The  captain  is  as  satisfied  of  the  Midshipman’s 


584 


WOEKS  OF  CHAELBS  DICKENS. 


importance  to  the  commerce  and  navigation  of  the 
country,  as  he  could  possibly  be,  if  no  ship  left  the  port 
of  London  withorut  the  Midshipman’s  assistance.  Hia 
delight  in  his  own  name  over  the  door,  is  inexhaustible. 
He  crosses  the  street,  twenty  times  a day,  to  look  at  it 
from  the  other  side  of  the  way  ; and  invariably  says,  on 
these  occasions,  Ed’ard  Cuttle,  my  lad,  if  your  mother 
could  ha’  kncw’d  as  you  would  ever  he  a man  o’^  science, 
the  good  old  creetur  would  ha’  been  took  aback  indeed  ! ” 

But  here  is  Mr.  Toots  descending  on  the  Midshipman 
with  violent  rapidity,  and  Mr.  Toots’s  face  is  very  red  as 
he  bursts  into  the  little  parlour. 

Captain  Gills,”  says  Mr.  Toots,  ""and  Mr.  Sols,  I 
am  happy  to  inform  you  that  Mrs.  Toots  has  had  an  in- 
crease to  her  family.” 

""  And  it  does  her  credit,”  cried  the  captain. 

I give  you  joy,  Mr.  Toots  ! ” says  old  Sol. 

""Thankee,”  chuckles  Mr.  Toots,  ""I’m  very  much 
abliged  to  you.  I knew  that  you’d  be  glad  to  hear,  and 
so  I came  down  myself.  We’re  positively  getting  on,  you 
know.  There’s  Florence,  and  Susan,  and  now  here’s  an- 
other little  stranger.” 

""  A female  stranger?”  inquires  the  captain. 

""Yes,  Captain  Gills,”  says  Mr.  Toots,  "".and  I’m  glad 
of  it.  The  oftener  we  can  repeat  that  most  extraordi- 
nary woman,  my  opinion  is,  the  better.” 

""  Stand  by ! ” says  the  captain,  turning  to  the  old  case- 
bottle  with  no  throat — for  it  is  evening,  and  the  Midship- 
man’s usual  moderate  provisions  of  pipes  and  glasses  is 
on  the  board.  ""Here’s  to  her,  and  may  she  have  ever 
so  many  more  ! ” 

""  Thankee,  Captain  Gills,”  says  the  delighted  Mr. 
Toots.  ""  I echo  the  sentiment.  If  you’ll  allow  me,  as 
my  so  doing  cannot  be  unpleasant  to  anybody,  under  the 
circumstances,  I think  I’ll  take  a pipe.” 

Mr.  Toots  begins  to  smoke,  accordingly,  and  in*  the 
openness  of  his  heart  is  very  loquacious. 

""  Of  all  the  remarkable  instances  that  that  delightful 
woman  has  given  of  her  excellent  sense.  Captain  Gills 
and  Mr.  Sols,”  says  Toots,  ""  I think  none  is  more  re- 
markable than  the  perfection  with  which  she  has  under- 
stood my  devotion  to  Miss  Dombey.  ” 

Both  his  auditors  assent. 

""  Because,  you  know,”  says  Mr.  Toots,  ""i  have  never 
changed  my  sentiments  towards  Miss  Dombey.  They 
are  the  same  as  ever.  She  is  the  same  bright  vision  to 
me,  at  present,  that  she  was  before  I made  Walter’s  ac- 
quaintance. When  Mrs.  Toots  and  myself  first  began 
to  talk  of — in  short,  of  the  tender  passion,  you  know. 
Captain  Gills.” 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


585 


Ay,  ay,  my  lad,’’  says  tlie  captain,  as  makes  us  all 
slue  round — for  which  you’ll, overhaul  the  book — ” 

‘‘  I shall  certainly  do  so.  Captain  Gills,”  said  Mr. 
Toots,  with  great  earnestness  ; when  we  first  began  to 
mention  such  subjects,  I explained  that  I was  what  you 
may  call  a blighted  fiower,  you  know.” 

The  captain  approves  of  this  figure  greatly  ; and  mur- 
murs that  no  flower  as  blows,  is  like  the  rose. 

But  Lord  bless  me,”  pursues  Mr.  Toots,  she  was  as 
entirely  conscious  of  the  state  of  my  feelings  as  I was 
myself.  There  is  nothing  I could  tell  She  was  the 
only  person  who  could  have  stood  between  me  and  the 
silent  tomb,  and  she  did  it,  in  a manner  to  command  my 
everlasting  admiration.  She  knows  that  there’s  nobody 
in  the  world  I look  up  to,  as  I do  to  Miss  Dombey.  She 
knows  that  there’s  nothing  on  earth  I wouldn’t  do  for  Miss 
Dombey.  She  knows  that  I consider  her  the  most  beau- 
tiful, the  most  amiable,  the  most  angelic  of  her  sex. 
What  is  her  observation  upon  that  ? The  perfection  of 
sense.  ' My  dear  you’re  right.  I think  so  too.’  ” 

And  so  do  I,”  says  the  captain. 

So  do  I,”  says  Sol  Gills. 

Then,”  resumes  Mr.  Toots,  after  some  contemplative 
pulling  at  his  pipe,  during  which  his  visage  has  ex- 
pressed the  most  contented  reflection,  what  an  ob- 
servant woman  my  wife  is  ! What  sagacity  she  pos- 
sesses ! What  remarks  she  makes ! It  was  only  last 
night,  when  we  were  sitting  in  the  enjoyment  of  connubial 
bliss — which,  upon  my  word  and  honour,  is  a feeble 
term  to  express  my  feelings  in  the  society  of  my  wife — 
that  she  said  how  remarkable  it  was  to  consider  the 
present  position  of  our  friend  Walters.  ' Here,’  ob- 
served my  wife,  ' he  is  released  from  sea-going,  after 
that  first  long  voyage  with  his  young  bride  ’—as  you 
know  he  was,  Mr.  Sols.” 

‘‘Quite  true,”  says  the  old  Instrument-maker,  rub- 
bing his  hands. 

“ ‘ Here  he  is,’  says  my  wife,  ‘ released  from  that, 
^mediately  ; appointed  by  the  same  establishment  to 
£ post  of  great  trust  and  confidence  at  home  ; showing 
himself  again  worthy ; mounting  up  the  ladder  with 
the  greatest  expedition  ; beloved  by  everybody ; as- 
sisted by  his  uncle  at  the  very  best  possible  time  of 
his  fortunes’ — which  I think  is  the  case,  Mr.  Sols? 
My  wife  is  always  correct.” 

“ Why  yes,  yes — some  of  our  lost  ships,  freighted  with 
gold,  have  come  home,  truly,  ” returns  old  Sol  laughing.- 
“ Small  craft,  Mr.  Toots,  but  serviceable  to  my  boy  ! ” 

“Exactly  so!”  says  Mr.  Toots.  “You’ll  never  find 
my  wife  wrong.  ‘ Here  he  is,’  says  that  most  remarkable 
woman,  ‘ so  situated,— and  what  follows  ? what  follows? 


586  WOKKS  OF  CHAELES  DICKENS. 

observed  Mrs.  Toots.  IS'ow  pray  remark,  Captain  Gills, 
and  Mr.  Sols,  tlie  depth  of  my  wife's  penetration.  ' Why 
that,  under  the  very  eye  of  Mr.  Dombey,  there  is  a foun- 
dation going  on,  upon  which  a — an  Edifice  ; ' that  was 
Mrs.  Toots's  word,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  exultingly,  ' is 
gradually  rising  perhaps  to  equal,  perhaps  excel,  that  of 
which  he  was  once  the  head,  and  the  small  beginnings 
of  which  (a  common  fault,  but  a bad  one,  Mrs.  Toots 
said)  escaped  his  memory.  Thus,'  said  my  wife,  * from 
his  daughter,  after  all,  another  Dombey  and  Son  will 
ascend ' — no  ' rise  ; ' that  was  Mrs.  Toots's  word — ^ 
‘ triumphant  I ' " 

Mr.  Toots,  with  the  assistance  of  his  pipe — which  he 
is  extreme  !y  glad  to  devote  to  oratorical  purposes,  as  its 
proper  use  aifects  him  with  a very  uncomfortable  sensa- 
tion — does  such  grand  justice  to  this  prophetic  sentence 
of  his  wife's,  that  the  captain,  throwing  away  his  glazed 
hat  in  a state  of  the  greatest  excitement,  cries  : 

Sol  Gills,  you  man  of  science,  and  myould  pardner, 
what  did  I tell  Wal'r  to  overhaul  on  that  there  night 
when  he  first  took  to  business?  Was  it  this  here  quo- 
tation, ^ Turn  again  Whittington  Lord  Mayor  of  London, 
and  when  you  are  old  you  will  never  depart  from  it.' 
Was  it  them  words,  Sol  Gills?  " 

It  certainly  was,  Ned,"  replied  the  old  Instrument- 
maker.  I remember  well." 

‘ ^ Then  I tell  you  what,"  says  the  captain,  leaning 
back  in  his  chair,  and  composing  his  chest  for  a prodig- 
ious roar.  I’ll  give  you  Lovely  Peg  right  through  ; and 
stand  by,  both  on  you,  for  the  chorus  ! " 

Buried  wine  grows  older,  as  the  old  Madeira  did,  in 
its  time  ; and  dust  and  cobwebs  thicken  on  the  bottles. 

Autumn  days  are  shining,  and  on  the  sea-beach  there 
are  often  a young  lady,  and  a white-haired  gentleman. 
With  them  or  near  them,  are  two  children  ; boy  and 
girl.  And  an  old  dog  is  generally  in  their  company. 

The  white-haired  gentleman  walks  with  the  little  boy, 
talks  with  him,  helps  him  in  his  play,  attends  upon  him 
watches  him,  as  if  he  were  the  object  of  his  life.  If  he 
is  thoughtful,  the  white-haired  gentleman  is  thoughtful 
too  ; and  sometimes  when  the  child  is  sitting  by  his 
side,  and  looks  up  in  his  face,  asking  him  questions,  he 
takes  the  tiny  hand  in  his,  and  holding  it,  forgets  to  an- 
swer. Then  the  child  says  : 

What,  grandpapa,  am  I so  like  my  poor  little  uncle 
again  ? " 

"‘Yes,  Paul,  But  he  was  weak,  and  you  are  very 
strong." 

“'Oh  yes,  I am  very  strong." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


587 


**  lie  lay  on  a little  ^ed  beside  the  sea,  and  yon 
can  run  about. 

And  so  they  range  away  again,  busily,  for  the  white- 
haired  gentleman  likes  best  to  see  the  child  free  and 
stirring  : and  as  they  go  about  together,  the  story  of  the 
bond  between  them  goes  about,  and  follows  them. 

But  no  one,  except  Florence,  knows  the  measure  of 
the  white-haired  gentleman’s  affection  for  the  girl.  That 
story  never  goes  about.  The  child  herself  almost  worn 
ders  at  a certain  secrecy  he  keeps  in  it.  He  hoards  her 
in  his  heart.  He  cannot  bear  to  see  a cloud  upon  her 
face.  He  cannot  bear  to  see  her  sit  apart.  He  fancies 
that  she  feels  a slight,  when  there  is  none.  He  steals 
away  to  look  at  her,  in  her  sleep.  It  pleases  him  to 
have  her  come,  and  wake  him  in  the  morning.  He  is 
fondest  of  her  and  most  loving  to  her,  when  there  is  no 
creature  by.  The  child  says  then,  sometimes  : 

Dear  grandpapa,  why  do  you  cry  when  you  kiss  me?  ” 
He  only  answers  ''  Little  Florence  ! Little  Florence 
and  smooths  away  the  curls  that  shade  her  earnest  eyes. 


END  OF  “DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


688 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


GOING  INTO  SOCIETY. 

[1858.] 


At  one  period  of  its  reverses,  the  House  fell  into  the 
occupation  of  a showman.  He  was  found  registered  as 
its  occupier,  on  the  parish  books  of  the  time  when  he 
rented  the  House,  and  there  was  therefore  no  need  of 
any  clue  to  his  name.  But,  he  himself  was  less  easy  to 
be  found  ; for,  he  had  led  a wandering  life,,  and  settled 
people  had  lost  sight  of  him,  and  people  who  plumed 
themselves  on  being  respectable  were  shy  of  admitting 
that  they  had  ever  knov/n  anything  of  him.  At  last, 
among  the  marsh  lands  near  the  river's  level,  that  lie 
about  Deptford  and  the  neighbouring  market-gardens,  a 
Grizzled  Personage  in  velveteen,  with  a face  so  cut  up 
b}"  varieties  of  weather  that  he  looked  as  if  he  had  been 
tatooed,  was  found  smoking  a pipe  at  the  door  of  a 
wooden  house  on  wheels.  The  wooden  house  was  laid 
up  in  ordinary  for  the  winter,  near  the  mouth  of  a 
muddy  creek  ; and  everything  near  it,  the  foggy  river, 
the  misty  marshes,  and  the  steaming  market-gardens, 
smoked  in  company  with  the  grizzled  man.  In  the  midst 
of  this  smoking  party,  the  funnel -chimney  of  the  wooden 
house  on  wheels  was  noi  remiss,  but  took  its  pipe  with 
thorest  in  a companionable. 

On  being  asked  if  it  were  he  who  had  once  rented  the 
House  to  Let,  Grizzled  Velveteen  looked  surprised,  and 
said  yes. — Then  his  name  was  Magsman?  That  was  it, 
Toby  Magsman — which  lawfully  christened  Robert ; but 
called  in  the  line,  from  a infant,  Toby.  There  was 
nothing  agin  Toby  Magsman,  he  believed  ? If  there  was 
suspicion  of  such — mention  it ! 

There  was  no  suspicion  of  such,  he  might  rest  assured. 
But,  some  inquiries  were  making  about  that  House,  and 
would  he  object  to  say  v/hy  he  left  it  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


589 


Not  at  all ; wliy  should  he  ? He  left  it,  along  of  a 
Dwarf. 

Along  of  a Dwarf  ? 

Mr.  Magsman  repeated,  deliberately  and  emphatically. 
Along  of  a Dwarf  ? 

Might  it  be  compatible  with  Mr.  Magsman^s  inclinatiop 
and  convenience  to  enter,  as  a favour,  into  a few  particu- 
lars? 

Mr.  Magsman  entered  into  the  following  particulars  : 

It  was  a long  time  ago,  to  begin  with  ; — afore  lotteries 
and  a deal  more  was  done  away  with.  Mr.  Magsman 
was  looking  about  for  a good  pitch,  and  he  see  that 
house,  and  he  says  to  himself,  ‘'I’ll  have  you  if  you  are 
to  be  had.  If  money  ’ll  get  you.  I’ll  have  you.” 

The  neighbours  cut  up  rough,  and  made  complaints  ; 
but  Mr.  Magsman  don’t  know  what  they  would,  have  had. 
It  was  a lovely  thing.  First  of  all,  there  was  the  can- 
vas, representin  the  picter  of  the  Giant,  in  Spanish 
trunks  and  a ruff,  who  was  himself  half  the  h eighth  of 
the  house,  and  was  run  up  with  a line  and  pulley  to  a 
pole  on  the  roof,  so  that  this  Ed  was  coeval  with  the 
parapet.  Then  there  was  the  canvas,  representin  the 
picter  of  the  Albina  lady,  showin  her  white  air  to  the 
Army  and  Navy  in  correct  uniform.  Then,  there  was 
the  canvas,  representin  the  picter  of  the  Wild  Indian  a 
scalpin  a member  of  some  foreign  nation.  Then,  there 
was  the  canvas  representin  the  picter  of  a child  of  a 
British  Planter,  seized  by  two  Boa  Constrictors — not 
that  we  never  had  no  child,  nor  no  Constrictors  neither. 
Similarly,  there  was  the  canvas,  repi’esentin  the  picter 
of  the  Wild  Ass  of  the  Prairies— not  that  we  never  had 
no  wild  asses,  nor  wouldn’t  have  had  ’em  at  a gift.  Last, 
there  was  the  canvas,  representin  the  picter  of  the  Dwarf, 
and  like  him  too  (considerin),  with  George  the  Fourth 
in  such  a state  of  astonishment  at  him  as  His  Majesty 
couldn’t  with  his  utmost  politeness  and  stoutness  ex- 
press. The  front  of  the  House  was  so  covered  with  can- 
vases, that  there  wasn’t  a spark  of  daylight  ever  visible 
• on  that  side.  ‘‘ Magsman's  Amusements,”  fifteen  feet 
long  by  two  feet  high,  ran  over  the  front  door  and  par- 
lour winders.  The  passage  was  a Arbour  of  green  baize 
and  gardenstuff.  A barrel-organ  performed  there  un- 
ceasing.  And  as  to  respectability, — if  threepence  ain't 
respectable,  what  is  ? 

^But,  the  Dwarf  is  the  principal  article  at  present,  and 
he  was  worth  the  money.  He  was  wrote  up  as  Major 
Tpschoffi,  of  the  Ijlpeeial  Bulgraderian  Brigade. 
Nobody  couldn’t  pronounce  the  name,  and  it  never  was 
Intended  anybody  should.  The  public  always  turned  it, 
as  a regular  rule,  into  Chopski.  In  the  line  he  was 
called  Chops  ; partly  on  that  account,  and  partly  because 


590 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Ms  real  name,  if  he  ever  had  any  real  name  (which  was 
very  dubious),  was  Stakes. 

He  was  a un-common  small  man,  he  really  was.  Cer- 
tainly not  so  small  as  he  was  made  out  to  be,  but  where 
is  your  Dwarf  as  is  ? He  was  a most  uncommon  small 
man,  wdth  a most  uncommon  large  Ed  ; and  what  he 
had  inside  that  Ed,  nobody  never  l^nowed  but  himself ; 
even  supposiii  himself  to  have  ever  took  stock  of  it^ 
which  it  would  have  been  a stitf  Job  for  even  him  to  dOc 

The  kindest  little  man  as  never  growed  ! Spirited, 
but  not  proud.  When  he  travelled  with  the  Spotted 
Baby — though  he  kno wed  himself  to  be  a natural  Dwarf, 
and  kno  wed  the  Baby's  spots  to  be  upon  him  artificial, 
he  nursed  that  Baby  like  a mother.  You  never  heerd 
Mm  give  a ill-name  to  a Giant,  He  did  allow  himself 
to  break  out  into  strong  language  respectin  the  Fat  Lady 
from  Norfolk  ; but  that  was  an  affair  of  the  'art ; and 
when  a man's  'art  has  been  trifled  with  by  a lady,  and 
the  preference  giv  to  a Indian,  he  aint  master  of  his  ac- 
tions. 

He  was  always  in  love,  of  course  ; every  human  nat'- 
ral  phenomenon  is.  And  he  was  always  in  love  with  a 
large  woman  : I never  knowed  the  Dwarf  as  could  be 
got  to  love  a small  one.  Which  helps  to  keep  'em  the 
Curiosities  they  are. 

One  singular  idea  he  had  in  that  Ed  of  his,  which 
must  have  meant  something,  or  it  wouldn't  have  been 
there.  It  was  always  his  opinion  that  he  was  entitled  to 
property.  He  never  would  put  his  name  to  anything. 
He  had  been  taught  to  write  by  the  young  man  without 
arms,  who  got  his  living  with  his  toes  (quite  a v/riting- 
master  he  was,  and  taught  scores  in  the  line),  but  Chops 
would  have  starved  to  death,  afore  he’d  have  gained  a 
bit  of  bread  by  putting  his  hand  to  a paper.  This  is  the 
more  curious  to  bear  in  mind,  because  he  had  no  pro- 
perty, nor  hope  of  property,  except  his  house  and  a sar- 
ser.  When  I say  his  house,  I mean  the  box,  painted 
and  got  up  outside  like  a reg’lar  six-roomer  that  he  used 
to  creep  into,  with  a diamond  ring  (or  quite  as  good  to 
look  at)  on  his  forefinger,  and  ring  a little  bell  out  of 
what  the  Public  believed  to  the  Drawing-room  winder. 
And  when  I say  a sarser,  I mean  a collection  for  himself 
at  the  end  of  every  Entertainment.  His  cue  for  that,  he 
took  from  me  : “Ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  little  man 
will  now  walk  three  times  round  the  Cairawan,  and  re- 
tire behind  the  curtain."  When  he  said  anything  im- 
portant, in  private  life,  he  mostly  wound  it  up  with  this 
form  of  words,  and  they  generally  the  last  thing  he  said 
to  me  at  night  afore  he  went  to  bed. 

He  had  what  I consider  a fine  mind — a poetic  mind. 
His  ideas  respectin  his  property  never  come  upon  him  so 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


591 


strong  as  when  he  sat  upon  a barrel-organ  and  had  the 
handle  turned.  Arter  the  wibration  had  run  through 
him  a little  time,  he  would  screech  out,  Toby,  I feel 
my  property  coming — grind  away  ! I’m  counting  my 
guineas  by  thousands,  Toby — grind  away  ! Toby,  I shall 
be  a man  of  fortun  ! I feel  the  Mint  a jingling  in  me, 
Toby,  and  Fm  swelling  out  into  the  Bank  of  England  ! ” 
Such  is  the  influence  of  music  on  a poetic  mind.  Not 
that  he  was  partial  to  any  other  music  but  a barrel-or- 
gan ; on  the  contrairy,  hated  it. 

He  had  a kind  of  a everlasting  grudge  agin  the  Pub- 
lic : which  is  a thing  you  may  notice  in  many  phenome- 
nons that  get  their  living  out  of  it.  What  riled  him 
most  in  the  nater  of  his  occupation  was,  that  it  kep  him 
out  of  Society.  He  was  continiwally  sayin,  "‘Toby,  my 
ambition  is,  to  go  into  Society.  The  curse  of  my  posi* 
tion  towards  the  Public  is,  that  it  keeps  me  bout  of  So- 
ciety. This  don’t  signify  to  a low  beast  of  a Indian  ; he 
anT  formed  for  Society.  This  don’t  signify  to  a Spotted 
Baby  ; he  an’t  formed  for  Society. — I am.” 

Nobody  never  could  make  out  what  Chops  done  with 
his  money.  He  had  a good  salary,  down  on  the  drum 
every  Saturday  as  the  day  come  round,  besides  having 
the  run  of  his  teeth^ — and  he  v/as  a Woodpecker  to  eat — ^ 
but  all  Dwarfs  are.  The  sarser  was  a little  income, 
bringing  him  in  so  many  half-pence  that  he’d  carry  ’em 
for  a week  together,  tied  up  in  a pocket  handkercher. 
And  yet  he  never  had  mone,  . And  it  couldn’t  be  the 
Fat  Lady  from  Norfolk,  as  was  once  supposed  ; because 
it  stands  to  reason  that  when  you  have  a -animosity 
towards  a Indian,  which  makes  you  grind  your  teeth  at 
him  to  his  face,  and  which  can  hardly  hold  you  from 
Goosing  him  audible  when  he’s  going  through  his  War- 
Dance — it  stands  to  reason  you  wouldn’t  under  them  cir- 
cumstances deprive  yourself,  to  support  that  Indian  in 
the  lap  of  luxury. 

Most  unexpected,  the  mystery  came  out  one  day  at 
Egham  Races.  The  Public  was  shy  of  bein  pulled  in, 
and  Chops  was  ringin  his  little  bell  out  of  his  drawing- 
room winder,  and  was  snarlin  to  me  over  his  shoulder  as 
he  kneeled  down  with  his  legs  out  at  the  back-door— 
for  he  couldn’t  be  shoved  into  his  house  without  kneel-' 
ing  down,  and  the  premises  wouldn’t  accommodate  his 
legs — was  snarlin,  Here’s  a precious  Public  for  you  ; 
why  the  Devil  don’t  they  tumble  up  ? ” when  a man  in 
the  crowd  holds  up  a carrier  pigeon,  and  cries  out,  If 
there’s  any  person  here  as  has  got  a ticket,  the  Lottery’s 
just  d rawed,  and  the  number  as  has  come  up  for  the 
great  prize  is  three,  seven,  forty-two  ! Three,  seven, 
forty-two  ! ” I was  givin  the  man  to  the  Furies  myself, 
for  calling  off  the  Public’s  attention — for  the  Public  will 


592 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


turn  away,  at  any  time,  to  look  at  anytliing  in  preference 
to  the  thing  showed  ’em  ; and  if  you  doubt  it,  get  ’em 
together  for  any  indiwidual  purpose  on  the  face  of 
the  earth,  and  send  only  two  people  in  late,  and  see  if  the 
whole  company  an’t  far  more  interested  in  takin  particu- 
lar notice  of  them  tvv^o  than  of  you — 1 say,  I wasn’t  best 
pleased  with  the  man  for  callin  out,  and  wasn’t  blessin 
him  in  my  own  mind,  when  I see  Chops’s  little  bell  hy 
out  of  the  winder  at  a old  lady,  and  he  gets  up  and  kicks 
his  box  over,  exposin  the  whole  secret,  and  he  catches 
hold  of  the  calves  of  my  legs  and  he  says  to  me,  ‘‘Carry 
me  into  the  Wan,  Toby,  and  throw  a pail  of  water  over 
me  or  I’m  a dead  man,  for  I’ve  come  into  my  property  I” 

Twelve  thousand  odd  hundred  pound,  was  Chops’s 
winnins.  He  had  bought  a half- ticket  for  the  twenty- 
five  thousand  prize,  and  it  had  come  up.  The  first  use 
he  made  of  his  property,  was,  to  offer  to  fight  the  Wild 
Indian  for  five  hundred  pound  a side,  him  with  a poisoned 
darning-needle  and  the  Indian  with  a club  ; but  the  In- 
dian bein  in  want  of  backers  to  that  amount,  it  went  no 
further. 

Arter  he  had  been  mad  for  a week — in  a state  of  mind, 
in  short,  in  which,  if  I had  let  him  sit  on  the  organ  for 
only  two  minutes,  I believe  he  would  have  bust — but  we 
kep  the  organ  from  him — Mr.  Chops  come  round,  and  be- 
haved liberal  and  beautiful  to  all.  He  then  sent  for  a 
young  man  he  knowed,  as  had  a wery  genteel  appear- 
ance and  was  a Bonnet  at  a gaming  booth  (most  respect- 
able brought  up,  father  havin  been  imminent  in  the 
livery  stable  line  but  unfort’nate  in  a commercial  crisis, 
through  paintin  a old  gray,  ginger-bay,  and  sellin  him 
with  a Pedigree),  and  Mr.  Chops  said  to  this  Bonnet,  who 
said  his  name  was  Normandy,  which  it  wasn’t : 

“ Normandy,  I’m  a goin  into  Society.  Will  you  go 
with  me  ? ” 

Says  Normandy : “Do  I understand  you,  Mr.  Chops 
to  liintimate  that  the  ’ole  of  the  expenses  of  that  mov® 
will  be  borne  by  yourself  ? ” 

“ Correct,”  says  Mr.  Chops.  “ And  you  shall  have  a 
Princely  allowance  too.” 

The  Bonnet  lifted  Mr.  Chops  upon  a chair,  to  shake 
hands  with  him,  and  replied  in  poetry,  with  his  eyes 
seeminly  full  of  tears  : 

“ My  boat  is  on  the  shore, 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea, 

And  I do  not  ask  for  more, 

But  I’ll  Go  ; — along  with  thee.” 

They  went  into  Society,  in  a chay  and  four  grays  with 
silk  jackets.  They  took  lodgings  in  Pall  Mall,  London, 
and  they  blazed  away. 

In  conseq  uence  of  a note  that  was  brought  to  Bartlemy 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


593 


Fair  in  tlie  autumn  of  next  year  by  a servant,  most  won- 
derful got  up  in  milk-white  cords  and  tops,  I cleaned 
myself  and  went  to  Pall  Mall,  one  evenin  appinted. 
The  gentlemen  was  at  their  wine  arter  dinner,  and  Mr. 
Chop's  eyes  were  more  fixed  in  that  Ed  of  his  than  I 
thought  good  for  him.  There  was  three  of  'em  (in  com- 
pany, I mean)  ; and  I knowed  the  third  well.  When 
last  met,  he  had  on  a white  Roman  shirt,  and  a Bishop's 
mitre  covered  with  leopard-skin,  and  played  the  clarionet 
all  wrong,  in  a band  at  a Wild  Beast  Show. 

This  gent  took  on  not  to  know  me,  and  Mr.  Chops 
said : ‘‘  Gentlemen,  this  is  a old  friend  of  former  days ; 
and  Normandy  looked  at  me  through  a eye-glass,  and 
said,  ‘‘Magsman,  glad  to  see  you  !" — which  I'll  take 
my  oath  he  wasn't.  Mr.  Chops,  to  get  him  convenient 
to  the  table,  had  his  chair  on  a throne  (much  of  the  form 
of  George  the  Fourth's  in  the  canvas),  but  he  hardly  ap- 
peared to  me  to  be  King  there  in  any  other  pint  of  view, 
for  his  two  gentlemen  ordered  about  like  Emperors. 
They  was  all  dressed  like  May-Day — gorgeous  ! — and  as 
to  wine,  they  swam  in  all  sorts. 

I made  the  round  of  the  bottles,  first  separate  (to  say 
I had  done  it)  and  then  mixed  ’em  all  together  (to  say  I 
had  done  it),  and  then  tried  two  of  'em  as  half-and-half, 
and  then  t’other  two.  Altogether,  I passed  a pleasin 
evenin,  but  with  a tendency  to  feel  muddled,  until  I con- 
sidered it  good  manners  to  get  up  and  say,  ‘ * Mr.  Chops, 
the  best  of  friends  must  part  ; I thank  you  for  the  wa- 
riety  of  foreign  drains  you  have  stood  so  'ansome  ; I looks 
towards  you  in  red  wine,  and  I takes  my  leave.”  Mr. 
Chops  replied,  "‘If  you'll  just  hitch  me  out  of  this  over 
your  right  arm,  Magsman,  and  carry  me  down  stairs.  I'll 
see  you  out.”  I said  I couldn't  think  of  such  thing,  but 
he  would  have  it,  so  I lifted  him  off  his  throne.  He  smelt 
strong  of  Maideary,  and  I could'nt  help  thinking  as  I car- 
ried him  down  that  it  was  like  carrying  a large  bottle 
full  of  wine,  with  a rather  ugly  stopper,  a good  deal  out 
of  proportion. 

When  I set  him  on  the  door  mat  in  the  hall,  he  kept 
me  close  to  him  by  holding  on  to  my  coat-collar,  and  he 
whispers  : 

“ I an't  'appy,  Magsman.” 

“ What's  on  your  mind,  Mr.  Chops?” 

“ They  don't  use  me  well.  They  an't  grateful  to  me. 
They  put's  me  on  the  mantel-piece  when  I won't  have  in 
more  Champagne  wine,  and  they  looks  me  in  the  side- 
board when  I won’t  give  up  my  property,” 

“ Get  rid  of  'em,  Mr.  Chops.” 

“ T can't.  We're  in  Society  together,  and  what  would 
Society  say?” 

“ Come  out  of  Society  ? ” says  I. 

""  I can’t.  You  don't  know  what  you're  talking 


594 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


When  you  have  once  gone  into  Society,  you  musn’t  come 
out  of  it.” 

Then  if  you’ll  excuse  the  freedom,  Mr.  Chops,”  were 
my  remark,  shaking  my  head  grave,  I think  it’s  a pity 
you  ever  v/ent  in.” 

Mr.  Chops  shook  that  deep  Ed  of  his,  to  a surprisin 
extent,  and  slapped  it  half  a dozen  times  with  his  hand, 
and  with  more  Wice  than  I thought  were  in  him.  Then, 
he  says,  “ You’re  a good  fellow,  but  you  don’t  under- 
stand. Good  night,  go  along.  Magsman,  the  little  man 
will  now  walk  three  times  round  the  Cairawan,  and  re- 
tire behind  the  curtain.”  The  last  I see  of  him  on  that 
occasion  was  his  tryin,  on  the  extremest  werge  of  insen- 
sibility, to  climb  up  the  stairs,  one  by  one,  with  hands 
and  knees.  They’d  have  been  much  too  steep  for  him, 
if  he  had  been  sober  ; but  he  wouldn’t  be  helped. 

It  warn’t  long  after  that,  that  I read  in  the  newspaper 
of  Mr.  Chops’  being  presented  at  court.  It  was  printed. 

It  will  be  recollected  ” — and  I’ve  noticed  in  my  life, 
that  it  i^  sure  to  printed  that  it  will  be  recollected,  when- 
ever it  won’t — that  Mr.  Chops  is  the  individual  of  small 
stature,  whose  brilliant  success  in  the  last  State  Lottery 
attracted  so  much  attention.”  Well,  I says  to  myself,, 
Such  is  Life  ! He  has  been  and  done  it  in  earnest  at  last ! 
He  has  astonished  George  the  Fourth  ! 

(On  account  of  which,  I had  that  canvas  new-painted, 
him  with  a bag  of  money  in  his  hand,  a presentin  it  to 
George  the  Fourth,  and  a lady  in  Ostricli.  Feathers  fallin 
in  love  with  him  in  a bag-wig,  sword,  and  buckles  cor. 
rect.) 

I took  the  House  as  is  the  subject  of  present  inquiries 
— though  not  the  honour  of  bein  acquainted — and  I run 
Magsman’s  Amusements  in  it  thirteen  months — some- 
times one  thing,  sometimes  another,  sometimes  nothin 
particular,  but  always  all  the  canvases  outside.  One 
night,  when  w'e  had  played  the  last  company  out,  which 
was  a shy  company,  through  its  raining  Heavens  hard, 
I was  takin  a pipe  in  the  one  pair  back  along  with  the 
young  man  with  the  toes,  which  I had  taken  on  for  a 
month  (though  he  never  drawed — except  on  paper),  and  I 
heard  a kickin  at  the  street  door.  Halloa  I ” I says  to 
the  young  man,  **  what’s  up  ? ” He  rubs  his  eyebrows 
with  his  toes,  and  he  says,  I can’t  imagine,  Mr.  Mags- 
man”— which  he  never  could  imagine  nothin,  and  was 
monotonous  company. 

The  noise  not  leavin  off,  I laid  down  my  pipe,  and  I 
took  up  a candle,  and  I went  down  and  opened  the  door. 
I looked  out  into  the  street ; but  nothin  could  I see,  and 
nothin  was  I a aware  of,  until  I turned  round  quick,  be- 
cause some  creetur  run  between  my  legs  into  the  passage. 
There  was  Mr.  Chops  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


595 


“ Magsman, he  say,  ''take  me,  on  the  old  terms,  and 
you’ve  got  me  ; " if  it’s  done,  say  done  I ” 

I was  all  of  a maze,  but  I said,  " Done  sir.” 

" Done  to  your  done,  and  double  done  ! ” says  he. 
" Have  you  got  a bit  of  supper  in  the  house?  ” 

Bearin  in  mind  them  sparklin  warieties  of  foreign 
drains  as  we’d  guzzled  away  at  in  Pall  Mall,  I was 
ashamed  to  ofter  him  cold  sassages  and  gin-and-water  ; 
but  he  took  ’em  both  and  took  ’em  free  ; havin  a chair 
for  his  table,  and  sitting  down  at  it  on  a stool,  like  old 
times.  I,  all  of  a maze  all  the  whije. 

It  was  arter  he  had  made  a clean  sweep  of  the  sass- 
ages (beef,  and  to  the  best  of  my  calculations  two  pound 
and  a quarter,)  that  the  wisdom  as  was  in  that  little  man 
began  to  come  out  of  him  like  perspiration. 

Magsman,”  he  says,  " look  upon  me  ! You  see  afore 
you.  One  as  has  both  gone  into  Society  and  come  out.’^ 

"O  ! You  are  out  of  it,  Mr.  Chops?  How  did  yota 
get  out,  sir  ! ” 

" Sold  out  ! ” says  he.  You  never  saw  the  like  of 
the  wisdom  as  his  Ed  expressed,  when  he  made  use  of 
them  two  words. 

" My  friend  Magsman,  I’ll  impart  to  you  a discovery 
I’ve  made.  It’s  wallable.  It’s  cost  twelve  thousand  five 
hundred  pound  ; it  may  do  you  good  in  life. — The  secret 
of  this  matter  is,  that  it  ain’t  so  much  that  a person  goes 
into  Society,  as  that  Society  goes  into  a person.” 

Not  exactly  keeping  up  with  his  meanin,  I shook  my 
head,  put  on  a deep  look,  and  said,  "You’re  right  there, 
Mr.  Chops.” 

" Magsman,”  he  says,  twitchin  me  by  the  leg,  " So- 
ciety has  gone  into  me,  to  the  tune  of  every  penny  of 
my  property.” 

I felt  that  I went  pale,  and  though  nat’ rally  a bold 
speaker,  I couldn’t  hardly  say,  " Where’s  Normandy  ? ” 

" Bolted.  With  the  plate,”  said  Mr.  Chops. 

"And  t’other  one  ?” — meaning  him  as  formerly  worQ 
the  bishop’s  mitre. 

" Bolted.  With  the  jewels,”  said  Mr.  Chops. 

I sat  down  and  looked  at  him,  and  he  stood  up  and 
looked  at  me. 

" Magsman,”  he  says,  and  he  seemed  to  myself  to  get 
wiser  as  he  got  hoarser;  " Society,  taken  in  the  lump* 
is  all  dwarfs.  At  the  court  of  Sf.  James’s,  they  was  all 
a doing  my  old  business — all  a goin  three  times  round 
the  Cairawan,  in  the  hold  court-suits,  and  properties, 
^ Elsewheres,  they  was  most  of’  em  ringin  their  little  bells 
out  of  make-believes.  Everywheres,  the  sarser  was 
a-goin  round.  Magsman,  the  sarser  is  the  uniwersal 
Institution  ! ” 

I perceived,  you  understand,  that  he  was  soured  by 
his  misfortuns,  and  I felt  for  Mr.  Chops. 


596 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


As  to  Fat  Ladies,”  says  lie,  giving  his  Ed  a tremen'* 
dious  one  agin  the  wall,  there’s  lots  of  them  in  Society, 
and  worse  than  the  original.  Mere  was  a ontrage  upon 
Taste — simply  a outrage  upon  Taste— awakenin  contempt 
— carryin  its  own  punishment  in  the  form  of  a Indian  I ” 
Here  he  giv  himself  another  tremendious  one.  “ But 
theirs y Magsman,  tJieirs  is  mercenary  outrages.  Lay  in 
Cashmere  shawls,  buy  bracelets,  strew  ’em,  and  a lot  of 
’hansome  fans  and  things  about  your  rooms,  let  it  be 
known  that  you  give  away  like  water  to  all  as  come  to  ad- 
mire, and  the  Fat  Lsidies  that  don’t  exhibit  for  so  much 
down  upon  the  drum,  will  come  from  all  the  pints  of  the 
compass  to  hock  about  you,  whatever  you  are.  They’ll 
drill  holes  in  your  ’art,  Magsman,  like  a Cullender.  And 
when  you’ve  no  more  left  to  give,  they’ll  laugh  at  you  to 
your  face,  and  leave  you  to  have  your  bones  picked  dry 
by  Wulturs,  like  the  dead  Wild  Ass  of  the  Prairies  that 
you  deserve  to  be  be  ! ” Here  he  giv  himself  the  most 
tremendious  one  of  all,  and  dropped. 

I thought  he  was  gone.  His  Ed  was  so  heavy,  and  he 
knocked  it  so  hard,  as  he  fell  so  stony,  and  the  sassager^ 
ial  disturbance  in  him  must  have  been  so  immense,  that 
I thought  he  was  gone.  But,  he  soon  come  round  with 
care,  and  he  sat  upon  the  floor,  and  he  said  to  me,  with 
wisdom  comin  out  of  his  eyes,  if  ever  it  come : 

Magsman  ! The  most  material  difference  between 
the  two  states  of  existence  through  which  your  unhappy 
friend  has  passed  ; ” he  reached  out  his  poor  little  hand, 
and  his  tears  dropped  down  on  the  moustachio  which  it 
was  a credit  to  him  to  have  done  his  best  to  grow,  but  it 
is  not  in  mortals  to  command  success, — the  difference 
is  this.  When  I was  out  of  Society,  ^ was  paid  light  for 
being  seen.  When  I went  into  Society,  I paid  heavy  for 
being  seen.  I prefer  the  former,  even  if  I wasn’t  forced 
upon  it.  Give  me  out  through  the  trumpet,  in  the  hold 
way,  to-morrow. 

After  that,  he  slid  into  the  line  again  as  easy  as  if  he 
bad  been  iled  all  over.  But  the  organ  was  kept  from 
him,  and  no  allusions  was  ever  made,  when  a company 
was  in,  to  his  property.  He  got  wiser  every  day  ; his 
views  of  Society  and  the  Public  was  luminous,  bewil- 
derin,  awful ; and  his  Ed  got  bigger  as  his  Wisdom  ex- 
panded it. 

He  took  well,  and  pulled  ’em  in  most  excellent  for 
nine  weeks.  At  the  expiration  of  that  period,  when  his 
Ed  was  a sight,  he  expressed  one  evenin,  the  last  Com- 
pany havin  been  turned  out,  and  the  door  shut,  n wish 
tx)  have  a little  music. 

Mr.  Chops,”  I said  (I  never  dropped  the  Mr.”  with 
him  ; the  world  might  do  it,  but  not  me) ; Mr.  Chops, 
are  you  sure  as  you  are  in  a state  of  mind  and  body  to 
sit  upon  the  organ  ? ” 


MISCELLANEOUS^ 


597 


His  answer  was  this  : “ Toby,  when  next  met  with 
on  the  tramp,  I forgive  her  and  the  Indian.  And  I am.” 

It  was  with  fear  and  trembling  that  I began  to  tarn 
the  handle  ; but  he  sat  like  a lamb.  It  will  be  my  be- 
lief to  my  dying  day,  that  I see  his  head  expand  as  he 
sat ; you  may  therefore  judge  how  great  his  thoughts 
was.  He  sat  out  all  the  changes,  and  then  he  come  off. 

Toby,”  he  says,  with  a quite  smile,  the  little  man 
will  now  walk  three  times  round  the  Cairawan,  and  re- 
tire beyond  the  curtain.” 

When  we  called  him  in  the  morning,  we  found  him 
gone  into  much  better  Society  than  mine  or  Pall  MalFs. 
I giv  Mr.  Chops  as  comfortably  a funeral  as  lay  in  my 
power,  followed  myself  as  Chief,  and  had  the  George  the 
Fourth  canvas  carried  first,  in  the  form  of  a banner. 
But,  the  House  was  so  dismal  afterwards,  that  I giv  it 
up,  and  took  to  the  Cairawan  again. 


I don’t  triumph.”  said  Jarber,  folding  up  the  second 
manuscript,  and  looking  hard  at  Trottle.  I don’t  tri- 
umph over  this  worthy  creature.  I merely  ask  him  if  he 
is  satisfied  now  ? ” 

‘‘How  can  he  be  anything  else?”  I said,  answering 
for  Trottle,  who  sat  obstinately  silent,  “ This  time, 
you  have  not  only  read  us  a delightfully  amusing  stor}% 
but  you  have  also  answered  the  question  about  the 
House.  Of  course  it  stands  empty  now.  Who  would 
think  of  taking  it  after  it  had  been  turned  into  a cara- 
van? ” I looked  at  Trottle,  as  I said  those  last  words,  and 
Jarber  waved  his  hand  indulgently  in  the  same  direction. 

“ Let  this  excellent  person  speak,”  said  Jarber.  “ You 
were  about  to  say  my  good  man  ? ” 

“ I only  wish  to  ask,  sir,”  said  Trottle  doggedly,  “if 
you  could  kindly  oblige  me  with  a date  or  two  in  connec- 
tion with  that  last  story  ? ” 

“ A date  !”  repeated  Jarber.  “ What  does  the  man 
want  with  dates  ! ” 

“ I should  be  glad  to  know,  with  great  respect,”  per 
sisted  Trottle,  “ if  the  person  named  Magsman  was  the 
last  tenant  who  lived  in  the  House,  It’s  my  opinion — if 
I may  be  excused  for  giving  it — that  he  most  decidedly 
was  not.  ’ 

With  these  words  Trottle  made  a low  bow,  and  quietly 
left  the  room. 

There  was  no  denying  that  Jarber,  when  we  were  left 
together,  looked  sadly  discomposed.  He  had  evidently 
forgotten  to  inquire  about  dates  ; and,  in  spite  of  his 
magnificent  talk  abeut  his  series  of  discoveries,  if  was 
quite  as  plain  that  the  two  stories  he  had  just  read,  had 
really  and  truly  exhausted  his  present  stock , I thought 
myself  bound,  in  common  gratitude,  to  help  him  out  of 


598 


WOkKS  of  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


liis  embarrassment  by  a timely  suggestion.  So  I pro. 
posed  tbat  he  should  come  to  t'ea  again  on  the  next 
Monday  evening,  the  thirteenth,  and  should  make  such 
inquiries  in  the  meantime  as  might  enable  him  to  dispose 
triumphantly  of  Trottle’s  objection. 

He  gallantly  kissed  my  hand,  made  a neat  little  speech 
of  acknowledgment,  and  took  his  leave.  For  the  rest  of 
the  week  I would  not  encourage  Trottle  by  allowing  him 
to  refer  to  the  House  at  all.  I suspected  he  was  making 
Ms  own  inquiries  about  dates,btit  I put  no  questions  to  him. 

On  Monday  evening  the  thirteenth,  that  dear  unfor- 
tunate Jarber  came,  punctual  to  the  appointed  time.  He 
looked  so  terribly  harrassed  that  he  was  really  quite  a 
spectacle  of  feebleness  and  fatigue.  I saw,  at  a glance, 
that  the  question  of  dates  had  gone  against  him,  that 
Mr.  Magsman  had  not  been  the  last  tenant  of  the  House, 
and  that  the  reason  of  its  emptiness  was  still  to  seek. 

‘‘What  I have  gone  through,’’ said  Jarber,  “words 
are  not  eloquent  enough  to  tell.  O Sophonisba,  I have 
begun  another  series  of  discoveries  ! Accept  the  last  two 
as  stories  laid  on  your  shrine  ; and  wait  to  blame  me  for 
leaving  your  curiosity  unappeased,  until  you  have  heard 
Number  Three.” 

Number  Three  looked  like  a very  short  manuscript, 
and  I said  as  much.  Jarber  explained  to  me  that  we 
were  to  have  some  poetry  this  time.  In  the  course  of 
his  investigations  he  had  stepped  into  the  Circulating 
Library,  to  seek  for  information  on  the  one  important 
subject.  All  the  Library  people  knew  about  the  House 
was,  that  a female  relative  of  the  lust  tenant,  as  they 
believed,  had,  just  after  that  tenant  left,  sent  a little 
manuscript  poem  to  them  which  she  described  as  refer- 
ring to  events  that  had  actually  passed  in  the  House  ; 
and  which  she  wanted  the  proprietor  of  the  Library  to 
publish.  She  had  written  no  address  on  her  letter  ; and 
the  proprietor  had  kept  the  manuscript  ready  to  be  given 
C^ack  to  her  (the  publishing  of  poems  not  being  in  his 
line)  when  she  might  call  for  it.  She  had  never  called 
for  it  ; and  the  poem  had  been  lent  to  Jarber,  at  his  ex- 
press request,  to  read  to  me. 

Before  he  began,  I rang  the  bell  for  Trottle  ; being 
determined  to  have  him  present  at  the  new  reading,  as 
a wholesome  check  on  his  obstinacy.  To  my  surprise 
Peggy  answered  the  bell,  and  told  me  that  Trottle  had 
stepped  out  without  saying  w’here.  I instantly  felt  the 
strongest  possible  conviction  that  he  was  at  his  old 
tricks  : and  that  his  stepping  out  in  the  evening,  with- 
out leave,  meant — Philandering. 

Controlling  myself  on  my  visitor’s  account,  I dismissed 
Peggy,  stifled  my  indignation,  and  prepared,  as  politely 
as  might  be,  to  listen  to  Jarber. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


599 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE. 

[1859.] 

IN  TWO  CHAPTERS. 


THE  MORTALS  IN  THE  HOUSE. 

Under  none  of  tlie  accredited  gliostly  circumstances, 
and  environed  by  none  of  the  conventional  ghostly  sur- 
roundings, did  I first  make  acquaintance  witk  the  house 
which,  is  the  subject  of  this  Christmas  piece.  I saw  it 
in  the  day-Ught,  with  the  sun  upon  it.  There  was  no 
wind,  no  rain,  no  lightning,  no  thunder,  no  awful  or  un- 
wonted circumstance,  of  any  kind,  to  heighten  its  effect. 
More  than  that  : I had  come  to  it  direct  from  a railway 
stati :n  ; it  was  not  more  than  a mile  distant  from  the 
railway  station  ; and,  as  I stood  outside  the  house,  look- 
ing back  upon  the  way  I had  come,  I could  see  the  goods 
train  running  smoothly  along  the  embankment  in  the 
valley,  I will  not  say  that  everything  was  utterly  com- 
mon-place, because  I doubt  if  anything  can  be  that,  ex- 
cept to  utterly  common- place  people — and  there  my 
vanity  steps  in  ; but  *.  will  take  it  on  myself  to  say  that 
anybody  might  see  the  house  as  I saw  it,  any  fine  au- 
tumn morning. 

The  manner  of  lighting  on  it  was  this. 

I was  travelling  towards  London  out  of  the  North,  in- 
tending to  stop  by  the  way,  to  look  at  the  house.  My 
health  required  a temporary  residence  in  the  country  ; 
and  a friend  of  min©  who  knew  that,  and  who  had  hap- 
pened to  drive  past  the  house,  had  written  to  me  to  sug- 
gest it  as  a likely  place.  I had  got  into  the  train  at  mid- 
night, and  had  fallen  asleep,  and  had  woke  up  and  had 
^at  looking  out  of  the  window  at  the  brilliant  Northern 
Lights  in  the  sky,  and  had  fallen  asleep  again,  and  had 
Woke  up  again  to  find  the  night  gone,  with  the  usual  dis- 
contended  conviction  on  me  that  I hadn’t  been  asleep  at 
all  ; — upon  which  question,  in  the  first  imbecility  of  that 
condition,  I am  ashamed  to  believe  that  I would  have 
done  wager  by  battle  with  the  man  who  sat  opposite  me. 
That  opposite  man  had  had, ‘through  the  night — as  that 
opposite  man  always  has — several  legs  too  many,  and  all 
of  them  too  long.  In  addition  to  this  unreasonable  con- 
duct (which  was  only  to  be  expected  of  him),  he  had  had 

pencil  and  a pocket-book,  and  had  been  perpetually 
listening  and  taking  notes.  It  had  appeared  to  me  that 


600 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


aggravating  notes  related  to  the  jolts  and  bumps 
of  the  carriage,  and  I should  have  resigned  myself  to 
his  taking  them  under  a general  supposition  that  he  was 
in  the  civil-engineering  way  of  life,  if  he  had  not  sat 
staring  straight  over  my  head  whenever  he  listened.  He 
was  a goggle-eyed  gentleman  of  a perplexed  aspect,  and 
his  demeanour  became  unbearable. 

It  was  a cold,  dead  morning  (the  sun  not  being  up 
^et),  and  when  I had  out- watched  the  paling  light  of 
the  fires  of  the  iron  country,  and  the  curtain  of  heavy 
smoke  that  hung  at  once  between  me  and  the  stars  and 
between  me  and  the  day,  I turned  to  my  fellow-traveller 
and  said : 

l)eg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  do  you  observe  anything 
particular  in  me?”  For,  really,  he  appeared  to  be  tak- 
ing down,  either  my  travelling-cap  or  my  hair,  with  a 
minuteness  that  was  a liberty. 

The  goggle-eyed  gentleman  withdrew  his  eyes  from 
behind  me,  as  if  the  back  of  the  carriage  were  a hun- 
dred miles  ofi,  and  said,  with  a lofty  look  of  compassion 
for  my  insignificance  : 

“ In  you,  sir  ? — 

B,  sir?”  said  I,  growing  warm. 

I have  nothing  to  do  with  you,  sir,”  returned  the 
gentleman  ; ‘‘pray  let  me  listen — 0.” 

He  enunciated  this  vowel  after  a pause,  and  noted  it 
down. 

At  first  I was  alarmed,  for  an  Express  lunatic  and  no 
communication  with  the  guard,  is  a serious  position. 
The  thought  came  to  my  relief  that  the  gentleman  might 
be  what  is  popularly  called  a Rapper  : one  of  a sect  for 
(some  of)  whom  I have  the  highest  respect,  but  whom  I 
don’t  believe  in.  I was  going  to  ask  him  the  question, 
when  he  took  the  bread  out  of  my  mouth. 

“ You  will  excuse  me,”  said  the  gentleman  con- 
temptuously, “ if  1 am  too  much  in  advance  of  common 
humanity  to  trouble  myself  at  all  about  it.  I have 
passed  the  night — as  indeed  I pass  the  whole  of  my  time 
now— in  spiritual  intercourse.” 

“ Oh  !”  said  I,  something  snappishly. 

“The  conferences  of  the  night  began,”  continued  the 
gentleman,  turning  several  leaves  of  his  note-book, 
“with  this  message:  ‘Evil  communications  corrupt 
manners.’  ” 

“ Sound,”  said  I ; “but  absolutely  new?” 

“ New  from  spirits,”  returned  the  gentleman. 

I could  only  repeat  my  rather  snappish  “ Oh  I ” and 
ask  if  I might  be  favoured  with  the  last  communica- 
tion ? 

“ ‘ A bird  in  the  hand,’  ” said  the  gentleman,  reading 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


601 


his  last  entry  with  great  solemnity,  ‘"Ms  worth  two  in 
the  Bosh.’"' 

“Truly  I am  of  the  same  opinion,’"  said  I;  “but 
shouldn’t  it  be  Bush  ? ” 

“ It  came  to  me  bosh,”  returned  the  gentleman. 

The  gentleman  then  informed  me  that  the  spirit  of 
Socrates  had  delivered  this  special  revelation  in  the 
course  of  the  night.  “ My  friend,  I hope  you  are  pretty 
well.  There  are  two  in  this  railway  carriage.  How  do 
you  do  ? There  are  seventeen  thousand  four  hundred 
and  seventy-nine  spirits  here,  but  you  cannot  see  them. 
Pythagoras  is  here.  He  is  not  at  liberty  to  mention  it, 
but  hopes  you  like  travelling.”  Galileo  likewise  had 
dropped  in,  with  this  scientific  intelligence.  “ I am  glad, 
to  see  you,  amico.  Gome  sta  f Water  will  freeze  when  it  is 
cold  enough.  Addio  ! ” In  the  course  of  the  night,  also, 
the  following  phenomena  had  occurred.  Bishop  Butler 
had  insisted  on  spelling  his  name  “ Bubler,”  for  which 
offence  against  orthography  and  good  manners  he  had 
been  dismissed  as  out  of  temper.  John  Milton  (suspect- 
ed of  wilful  mystification)  had  repudiated  the  authorship 
of  Paradise  Lost,  and  had  introduced,  as  joint  authors  of 
that  poem,  two  Unknown  gentlemen,  respectively  named 
Grangers  and  Scadingtone.  And  Prince  Arthur,  ne- 
phew of  King  John  of  England,  had  described  himself 
as  tolerably  comfortable  in  the  seventh  circle,  where  he 
was  learning  to  paint  on  velvet,  under  the  direction  of 
Mrs.  Trimmer  and  Mary”  Queen  of  Scots. 

If  this  should  meet  the  eye  of  the  gentleman  who  fav- 
oured me  with  these  disclosures,  I trust  he  will  excuse 
my  confessing  that  the  sight  of  the  rising  sun,  and  the 
contemplation  of  the  Magnificent  Order  of  the  vast  Uni“ 
verse,  made  me  impatient  of  them.  In  a word,  I was 
so  impatient  of  them,  that  I was  mightily  glad  to  get  out 
at  the  next  station,  and  to  exchange  these  clouds  and 
vapours  for  the  free  air  of  Heaven. 

By  that  time  it  was  a beautiful  morning.  As  I walked 
away  among  such  leaves  as  had  already  fallen  from  the 
golden,  brown,  and  russet  trees  ; and  as  I looked  around 
me  on  the  wonders  of  Creation,  and  thought  of  the 
steady,  unchanging,  and  harmonious  laws  by  which  they 
are  sustained  ; the  gentleman’s  spiritual  intercourse 
seemed  to  me  as  poor  a piece  of  Journey-work  as  ever 
this  world  sav/.  In  which  heathen  state  of  mind,  I came 
within  view  of  the  house,  and  stopped  to  examine  it  at- 
tentively. 

It  was  a solitary  house,  standing  in  a sadly  neglected 
garden,  a pretty  even  square  of  some  two  acres.  It  was 
a house  of  about  the  time  of  George  the  Second  ; as 
stiff,  as  cold,  as  formal,  and  in  as  bad  taste,  as  could 
possibly  be  desired  by  the  most  loyal  admirer  of  the 
whole  quarter  of  Georges.  It  was  uninhabited,  but  had, 
VoL.  12-  — Z 


602 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


within  a year  or  two,  been  cheaply  repaired  to  render  it 
habitable  ; I say  cheaply,  because  the  work  had  been 
done  in  a surface  manner,  and  was  already  decaying  as  to 
the  paint  and  plaster,  though  the  colours  were  fresh.  A 
lop-sid^d  board  dropped  over  the  garden  wall,  announc- 
ing that  it  was  To  let  on  very  reasonable  terms,  well 
furnished.’*  It  was  much  too  closely  and  heavily  sha- 
dowed by  trees,  and,  in  particular,  there  were  six  tall 
poplars  before  the  front  windows,  which  were  exces- 
sively melancholy,  and  the  site  of  which  had  been  ex- 
tremely ill  chosen. 

It  was  easy  to  see  that  it  was  an  avoided  house — a 
house  that  was  shunned  by  the  village,  to  which  my  eye 
»was  guided  by  a church  spire  some  half  a mile  off — a 
house  that  nobody  would  take.  And  the  natural  infer- 
ence was,  that  it  had  the  reputation  of  being  a haunted 
house. 

'No  period  within  the  four-and-twenty  hours  of  day  and 
night  is  so  solemn  to  me,  as  the  early  morning.  In  the 
summer-time,  I often  rise  very  early,  and  repair  to  my 
room  to  do  a day’s  work  before  breakfast,  and  I am  al- 
ways on  those  occasions  deeply  impressed  by  the  still- 
ness and  solitude  around  me.  Besides  that  there  is  some- 
thing awful  in  the  being  surrounded  by  familiar  faces 
asleep — in  the  knowledge  that  those  who  are  dearest  to 
us  and  to  whom  we  are  dearest,  are  profoundly  unconsci- 
ous of  us,  in  an  impassive  state,  anticipative  of  that  mys- 
terious condition  to  which  we  are  all  tending— the  stop- 
ped life,  the  broken  threads  of  yesterday,  the  deserted 
seat,  the  closed  book,  the  unfinished  but  abandoned  oc- 
cupation, all  are  images  of  Death.  The  tranquillity  of 
the  hour  is  the  tranquillity  of  Death.  The  colour  and 
the  chill  have  the  same  association.  Even  a certain  air 
that  familiar  household  objects  take  upon  them  when 
they  first  emerge  from  the  shadows  of  the  night  into  the 
morning,  of  being  newer,  and  as  they  used  to  be  long 
ago,  has  its  counterpart  in  the*  subsidence  of  the  worn 
face  of  maturity  or  age,  in  death,  into  the  old  youthful 
look.  Moreover,  I once  saw  the  apparition  of  my  father, 
at  this  hour.  He  was  alive  and  well,  and  nothing  ever 
came  of  it,  but  I saw  him  in  the  daylight,  sitting  with 
his  back  towards  me,  on  a seat  that  stood  beside  my  bed„ 
His  head  was  resting  on  his  hand,  and  whether  he  was 
slumbering  or  grieving,  I could  not  discern.  Amazed  to 
see  him  there,  I sat  up,  moved  my  position,  leaned  out^ 
of  bed,  and  watched  him.*  As  he  did  not  move,  I spoke 
to  him  more  than  once.  As  he  did  not  move  then,  I 
became  alarmed  and  laid  my  head  upon  his  shoulder,  as 
I thought — and  there  was  no  such  thing. 

For  all  these  reasons,  and  for  others  less  easily  and 
briefly  statable,  I find  the  early  morning  to  be  my  most 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


603 


ghostly  time.  Any  house  would  be  more  or  less  haunted 
to  me,  in  the  early  morning  ; and  a haunted  house 
could  scarcely  address  me  to  greater  advantage  than 
then. 

I walked  on  into  the  village,  with  the  desertion  of  this 
house  upon-  my  mind,  and  I found  the  landlord  of  the 
little  inn,  sanding  his  door-step.  I bespoke  breakfast, 
and  broached  the  subject  of  the  house. 

Is  it  haunted  I asked. 

The  landlord  looked  at  me,  shook  his  head,  and  an- 
swered, I say  nothing.” 

Then  it,  is  haunted  ? ” 

Well  ! ” cried  the  landlord,  in  an  outburst  of  frank- 
ness that  had  the  appearance  of  desperation — “ I wouldn’t 
sleep  in  it.” 

‘‘  Why  not  ?” 

/'If  I wanted  to  have  all  the  bells  in  a house  ring, 
with  nobody  to  ring  ’em  ; and  all  the  doors  in  a house 
bang,  with  nobody  to  bang  ’em  ; and  all  sorts  of  feet 
treading  about,  with  no  feet  there  ; why  then,”  said  the 
landlord,  " I’d  sleep  in  that  house.” 

" Is  anything  seen  there  ? ” 

The  landlord  looked  at  me  again,  and  then,  with  his 
former  appearance  of  desperation,  called  down  his  stable- 
yard  for  " Ikey  ! ” 

The  call  produced  a high-shouldered  young  fellow, 
with  a round,  red  face,  a short  crop  of  sandy  hair,  a very 
broad,  humorous  mouth,  a turned-up  nose,  and  a great 
sleeved  waist-coat  of  purple  bars,  with  mother-of-pearl 
buttons,  that  seemed  to  be  growing  upon  him,  and  to 
be  in  a fair  way — ^if  it  were  not  pruned — of  covering  his 
head  and  overrunning  his  boots. 

" This  gentleman  wants  to  know,”  said  the  landlord, 
" if  anything’s  seen  at  the  Poplars.” 

" ’Ooded  woman  with  a howl,”  said  Ikey,  in  a state  of 
great  freshness. 

" Do  you  mean  a cry  ? ” 

"I  mean  a bird,  sir.” 

" A hooded  woman  with  an  owl.  Dear  me  I Did  you 
ever  see  her  ? ” 

" I seen  the  howl.” 

"Never  see  the  woman?” 

" Not  so  plain  as  the  howl,  but  they  always  keeps  to- 
gether.” 

" Has  anybody  ever  seen  the  woman  as  plainly  as  the 
owl.” 

"Lord  bless  you,  sir  ! Lots.” 

"Who?” 

" Lord  bless  you  sir  ! Lots.” 

The  general  dealer  opposite,  for  instance,  who  is 
opening  his  shop  ? ” 


604 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


‘"Perkins?^  Bless  you,  Perkins  wouldn’t  go  a-nigh 
the  place.  No  ! ” observed  the  young  man,  with  con- 
siderable feeling  ; ‘'he  an’t  overwise,  an’t  Perkins,  but 
he  ant  such  a fool  as  that” 

(Here,  the  landlord  murmured  his  confidence  in  Per- 
kin’s knowing  better.) 

“ Who  is — or  who  was — the  hooded  woman  with  thft 
g)wl  ? Do  you  know  ? ” 

“Well  ! ” said  Ikey,  holding  up  his  cap  with  one  hand 
while  he  scratched  his  head  with  the  other,  “ they  say,  in 
general,  that  she  was  murdered,  and  the  howl  he  ’ooted 
the  while.” 

This  very  concise  summary  of  the  facts  was  all  I could 
learn  except  that  a young  man,  as  hearty  and  likely  a 
3^oung  man  as  ever  I see,  had  been  took  with  fits  and 
held  down  in  ’em,  after  seeing  the  hooded  woman.  Also, 
that  a personage,  dimly  described  as  “a  bold  chap,  a 
sort  of  one-eyed  tramp,  answering  to  the  name  of  Joby, 
unless  you  challenged  him  as  Greenwood,  and  then  he 
said,  ‘ Why  not  ? and  even  if  so,  mind  your  own  busi- 
ness,’ ” had  encountered  the  hooded  woman  a matter  of 
five  or  six  times.  But  I was  not  materially  assisted  by 
these  witnesses,  inasmuch  as  the  first  was  in  California, 
and  the  last  was,  as  Ikey  said  (and  he  was  confirmed  by 
the  landlord).  Anywheres. 

Now,  although  I regard  with  a hushed  and  solemn 
fear  the  mysteries  between  which  and  this  state  of  ex- 
istence is  interposed  the  barrier  of  the  great  trial  and 
change  that  fall  on  all  the  things  that  live,  and  although 
I have  not  the  audacity  to  pretend  that  I know  any- 
thing of  them,  I can  no  more  reconcile  the  mere  banging 
of  doors,  ringing  of  bells,  creaking  of  boards,  and  such- 
like insignificances,  with  tb'"  mhjestic  beauty  and  pre» 
vading  analogy  of  all  the  divine  rules  that  I am  permit- 
ted to  understand,  than  I had  been  able,  a little  while 
before,  to  yoke  the  spiritual  intercourse  of  my  fellow- 
traveller  to  the  chariot  of  the  rising  sun.  Moreover,  I 
had  lived  in  two  haunted  houses — both  abroad.  In  one 
of  these,  an  old  Italian  indeed,  and  which  had  recently 
been  abandoned  on  that  account,  I lived  eight  months 
most  tranquilly  and  pleasantly,  notwithstanding  that  the 
house  had  a score  of  mysterious  bed-rooms,  which  were 
never  used,  and  possessed,  in  one  large  room  in  which  I 
sat  reading,  times  out  of  number  at  all  hours,  and  next 
to  which  I slept,  a haunted  chamber  of  the  first  preten- 
sions. I gently  hinted  these  considerations  to  the  land- 
lord. And  as  to  this  particular  house  having  a bad 
name  undeservedly,  and  how  easy  it  was  to  give  bad 
names,  and  did  he  not  think  that  if  he  and  I were  per- 
sistently to  whisper  in  the  village  that  any  weird-look- 
kig  old  drunken  tinker  of  the  neighborhood  had  sold 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


605 


hiraself  to  tlie  Devil,  lie  would  come  in  to  be  suspected 
of  that  commercial  venture  ! All  this  wise  talk  was 
perfectly  ineifective  with  the  landlord,  1 am  bound  to 
confess,  and  was  as  dead  a failure  as  ever  I made  in  my 
life. 

To  cut  this  part  of  the  story  short,  I was  piqued  about 
the  Imunted  house,  and  was  already  half  resolved  to 
take  it.  So,  after  breakfast,  1 got  the  keys  from  Perkin’s 
brother-in-law  (a  whip  and  harness  maker,  who  keeps 
the  Post  Office,  and  is  under  submission  to  a most  rigor- 
ous wife  of  the  Doubly  Seceding  Little  Emanuel  per- 
suasion), and  went  up  to  the  house,  attended  by  my 
landlord  and  by  Ikey. 

Within,  I found  it,  as  I had  expected,  transcendently 
dismal.  The  slowly  changing  shadows  waved  on  it  from 
the  heavy  trees,  were  doleful  in  the  last  degree ; the 
house  was  ill-placed,  ill -built,  ill-planned,  and  ill-fitted. 
It  was  damp,  it  was  nor  free  from  dry  rot,  there  was  a 
flavour  of  rats  in  it,  and  it  was  the  gloomy  victim  of 
that  indescribable  decay  which  settles  on  all  the  work  of 
man’s  hands  whenever  it  is  not  turned  to  man’s  account. 
The  kitchens  and  offices  were  too  large,  and  remote  from 
each  other.  Above  stairs  and  below,  waste  tracts  of  pas- 
sage intervened  between  patches  of  fertility  represented 
by  room  ; and  there  was  a mouldy  old  well  with  a green 
growth  upon  it,  hiding  like  a murderous  trap,  near  the 
bottom  of  the  back -stairs,  under  the  double  row  of  bells. 
One  of  these  bells  was  labelled,  on  a black  ground  in 
faded  white  letters,  Master  B.  This,  they  told  me,  was 
the  bell  that  rang  the  most. 

Who  was  Master  B.?  ” I asked.  ‘ ‘ Is  it  known  what 
he  did  while  the  owl  hooted?” 

'‘Rang  the  bell,”  said  Ikey. 

I was  rather  struck  by  the  prompt  dexterity  with 
which  this  young  man  pitched  his  fur  cap  at  the  bell, 
and  rang  it  himself.  It  was  a loud,  unpleasant  bell,  and 
made  a very  disagreeable  sound.  The  other  bells  were 
inscribed  according  to  the  names  of  the  rooms  to  which 
their  wires  were  conducted  : as  “ Picture  Room,”  “ Dou- 
ble Room,”  “Clock  Room,”  and  the  like.  Following 
Master  B.’s  bell  to  its  source,  I found  that  young  gen- 
tleman to  have  had  but  indifferent  third-class  accommo- 
dation in  a triangular  cabin  under  the  cock-loft,  with  a 
corner  fire-place  which  Master  B.  must  have  been  exceed- 
ingly small  if  he  were  ever  able  to  warm  himself  at, 
and  a corner  chimney-piece  like  a pyramidal  staircase  to 
the  ceiling  for  Tom  Thumb.  The  papering  of  one  side 
of  the  room  had  dropped  down  bodily,  with  fragments 
of  plaster  adhering  to  it,  and  almost  blocked  up  the 
door.  It  appeared  that  Master  B. , in  his  spiritual  com 
dition,  always  made  a point  of  pulling  the  paper  dowm 


606 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKEl^S. 


Neither  the  landlord  nor  Ikey  could  suggest  why  he 
made  such  a fool  of  himself. 

Except  that  the  house  had  an  immense  large  rambling 
left  at  the  top,  I made  no  other  discoveries.  It  was 
moderately  well  furnished,  but  sparely.  Some  of  the 
furniture — say,  a third — was  as  old  as  the  house  ; the 
rest  was  of  various  periods  within  the  last  half  century. 
I was  referred  to  a corn-chandler  in  the  market-place  of 
Ihe  county  town  to  treat  for  the  house.  I went  that  day, 
And  I took  it  for  six  months. 

It  was  Just  the  middle  of  October  when  I moved  in 
with  my  maiden  sister  (I  venture  to  call  her  eight-and- 
thirty,  she  is  so  very  handsome,  sensible,  and  engaging). 
We  took  with  us,  a deaf  stable-man,  my  bloodhound 
Turk,  two  women  servants,  and  a young  person  called 
an  Odd  Girl.  I have  reason  to  record  of  the  attendant 
last  enumerated,  who  was  one  of  the  Saint  Lawrence's 
Onion  Female  Orphans,  that  she  was  a fatal  mistake  and 
a disastrous  engagement. 

The  year  was  dying  early,  the  leaves  were  falling  fast, 
it  was  a raw,  cold  day  when  we  took  possession,  and  the 
gloom  of  the  house  was  most  depressing.  The  cook  (an 
amiable  woman,  but  of  a weak  turn  of  intellect)  burst 
into  tears  on  beholding  the  kitchen,  and  requested  that 
tier  silver  watch  might  be  delivered  over  to  her  sister  (2 
Tuppintock's  Gardens,  Idgg's  Walk,  Clapham  Rise),  in 
the  event  of  anything  happening  to  her  from  the  damp. 
Streaker,  the  housemaid,  feigned  cheerfulness,  but  was 
the  greater  martyr.  The  Odd  Girl,  who  had  never  been 
In  the  country,  alone  was  pleased,  and  made  arrange- 
ments for  sowing  an  acorn  in  the  garden  outside  the 
scullery  window,  and  rearing  an  oak. 

We  went,  before  dark,  through  all  the  natural — as  op- 
posed to  supernatural — miseries  incidental  to  our  state. 
Dispiriting  reports  ascended  (like  the  smoke)  from  the 
basement  in  volumes,  and  descended  from  the  upper 
rooms.  There  was  no  rolling-pin,  there  was  no  sala- 
mander (which  failed  to  surprise  me,  for  I don't  knew 
what  it  is),  there  was  nothing  in  the  house  ; what  there 
was,  was  broken  ; the  last  people  must  have  lived  like 
pigs  ; what  could  the  meaning  of  the  landlord  be  ? 
Through  these  distresses  the  odd  girl  was  cheerful  and 
exemplary.  But  within  four  hours  after  dark  we  had 
got  into  a supernatural  groove,  and  the  Odd  Girl  had 

seen  Eyes,"  and  was  in  hysterics. 

My  sii^ter  and  I had  agreed  to  keep  the  haunting  strict- 
ly to  ourselves,  and  my  impression  was,  and  still  is,  that 
I had  not  left  Ikey,  when  he  helped  to  unload  the  cart, 
alone  with  the  women,  or  any  one  of  them,  for  one  min- 
ute. Nevertheless,  as  I say,  the  Odd  Girl  had  '"seen 
Eyes  " (no  other  explanation  could  ever  be  drawn  from 


MISCELLANEOUiS. 


607 


her),  before  nine,  and  by  ten  o’clock  bad  had  as  much 
vinegar  applied  to  her  as  would  pickle  a handsome  sal- 
mon. 

I leave  a discerning  public  to  judge  of  my  feelings, 
when,  under  these  untoward  circumstances,  at  about 
half-past  ten  o’clock  Master  B.'s  bell  began  to  ring  in  a 
most  infuriated  manner,  and  Turk  howled  until  the 
house  resounded  with  his  lamentations  ! 

I hope  I may  never  again  be  in  a state  of  mind  so  un 
Christian  as  the  mental  frame  in  which  I lived  for  some 
weeks,  respecting  the  memory  of  Master  B.  Whether 
his  bell  was  rung  by  rats,  or  mice,  or  bats,  or  wind,  or 
what  other  accidental  vibration,  or  sometimes  by  one' 
cause,  sometimes  another,  and  sometimes  by  collusion, 
I don’t  know  ; but,  certain  it  is,  that  it  did  ring  two 
nights  out  of  three,  until  I conceived  the  happy  idea  of 
twisting  Master  B.’s  neck — in  other  words,  breaking 
his  bell  short  off — and  silencing  that  young  gentleman, 
as  to  my  experience  and  belief,  forever. 

But,  by  that  time,  the  Odd  Girl  had  developed  such 
improving  powers  of  catalepsy,  that  she  had  become  a 
shining  example  of  that  very  inconvenient  disorder. 
She  would  stiffen,  like  a Guy  Fawkes  endowed  with  un- 
reason, on  the  most  irrelevant  occasions.  I would  ad- 
dress the  servants  in  a lucid  manner,  pointing  out  to 
them  that  I had  painted  Master  B.’s  room  and  balked 
the  paper,  and  taken  Master  B.’s  bell  away  and  balked 
the  ringing,  and  if  they  could  suppose  that  that  con- 
founded boy  had  lived  and  died,  to  clothe  himself  with 
no  better  behaviour  than  would  most  unquestionably 
have  brought  him  and  the  sharpest  particles  of  a birch - 
broom  into  close  acquaintance  in  the  present  imperfect 
state  of  existence,  could  they  also  suppose  a mere  h uman 
being,  such  as  I was,  capable  of  those  contemptible 
means  of  counteracting  and  limiting  the  powers  of  the 
disembodied  spirits  of  the  dead,  or  of  any  spirits  ? — I say 
I would  become  emphatic  and  cogent,  not  to  say  rather 
complacent,  in  such  an  address,  when  it  would  all  go  for 
nothing  by  reason  of  the  Odd  Girl’s  suddenly  stiffening 
from  the  toes  upward,  and  glaring  among  us  like  a par>. 
ochial  petrifaction. 

Streaker,  the  housemaid,  too,  had  an  attribute  of  a 
most  discomfiting  nature.  I am  unable  to  say  whether 
she  was  of  an  unusually  lymphatic  temperament,  or 
what  else  was  the  matter  with  her,  but  this  young  wo- 
man became  a mere  distillery  for  the  production  of  the 
largest  and  most  transparent  tears  I ever  met  with. 
Combined  with  these  characteristics,  was  a peculiar  ten* 
acity  of  hold  in  those  specimens,  so  that  they  didn’t 
fall,  but  hung  upon  her  face  and  nose.  In  this  condition, 
and  mildly  and  deplorably  shaking  her  head,  her  silence 
would  throw  me  more  heavily  than  the  Admirable  Crich- 


608 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


ton  conld  have  done  in  a verbal  disputation  for  a purse 
of  money.  Cook,  likewise,  always  covered  me  with  con- 
fusion as  with  a garment,  by  neatly  winding  up  the  ses- 
sion with  the  protest  that  the  'Ouse  was  wearing  her  out, 
and  by  meekly  repeating  her  last  wishes  regarding  her 
silver  watch. 

As  to  our  nightly  life,  the  contagion  of  suspicion  and 
fear  was  among  us,  aud  there  is  no  such  contagion  under 
the  sky.  Hooded  woman  ? According  to  the  accounts, 
we  were  in  a perfect  Convent  of  hooded  women.  Noises? 
With  that  contagion  downstairs,  I myself  have  sat  in 
the  dismal  parlour,  listening,  until  I have  heard  so  many 
and  such  strange  noises,  that  they  would  have  chilled 
my  blood  if  I had  not  warmed  it  by  dashing  out  to  make 
discoveries.  Try  this  in  bed,  in  the  dead  of  the  night  ; 
try  this  at  your  own  comfortable  fireside,  in  the  life  of 
the  night.  You  can  fill  any  house  with  noises,  if  you 
will,  until  you  have  a noise  for  every  nerve  in  your  ner- 
vous system. 

I repeat ; the  contagion  of  suspicion  and  fear  was 
among  us,  and  there  is  no  such  contagion  under  the  sky. 
The  women  (their  noses  in  a chronic  state  of  excoriation 
from  smelling-salts),  were  alv^^ays  primed  and  loaded  for 
a swoon,  and  ready  to  go  off  with  hair-triggers.  The 
two  elder  despatched  the  Odd  Girl  on  all  expeditions  that 
were  considered  doubly  hazardous,  and  she  always  es- 
tablished the  reputation  of  such  adventures  by  coming 
back  cataleptic.  If  Cook  or  Streaker  went  over-head 
after  dark,  we  knew  we  should  presently  hear  a bump  on 
the  ceiling  ; and  this  took  place  so  constantly,  that'  it 
was  as  if  a fighting  man  were  engaged  to  go  about  the 
house,  administering  a touch  of  his  art  which  I believe 
is  called  The  Auctioneer,  to  every  domestic  he  met 
with. 

It  was  in  vain  to  do  anything.  It  was  in  vain  to  be 
frightened,  for  the  moment  in  one's  own  person,  by  a 
real  owl,  and  then  to  show  the  owl.  It  was  in  vain  to 
discover,  by  striking  an  accidental  discord  on  the  piano, 
that  Turk  always  howled  at  particular  notes  and  combi- 
nations. It  was  in  vain  to  be  a Rhadamanthus  with  the 
bells,  and  if  an  unfortunate  bell  rang  without  leaf  e,  to 
have  it  down  inexorably  and  silence  it.  It  was  in  vain 
to  fire  up  chimneys,  let  torches  down  the  well,  charge 
furiously  into  suspected  rooms  and  recesses.  Wo 
changed  servants,  and  it  was  no  better.  Tlie  new  set 
ran  away,  and  a third  set  came,  and  it  was  no  better. 
At  last,  our  comfortable  housekeeper  jrot  to  be  so  disor- 
ganized and  wretched,  that  I one  night  dejectedly  said 
to  my  sister  : Patty,  I begin  to  despair  of  our  getting 
people  to  go  on  with  us  here,  aud  I think  we  must  give 
this  up." 

My  sister,  who  is  a woman  of  immense  spirit,  replied. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


609 


John  don’t  give  it  up.  Don’t  be  beaten,  John. 
There  is  another  way.” 

And  what  is  that  ? ” said  I. 

John,”  returned  my  sister,  we  are  not  to  be 
driven  out  of  this  house,  and  that  for  no  reason  what- 
ever, that  is  apparent  to  you  and  me,  we  must  help  our- 
selves and  take  the  house  wholly  and  solely  into  our 
own  hands.  ” 

But  the  servants,”  said  I. 

Have  no  servants,”  said  my  sister,  boldly. 

Like  most  people  in  my  grade  of  life,  I had  never 
thought  of  the  possibility  of  going  on  without  those  faith- 
ful obstructions.  The  notion  was  so  new  to  me  when 
suggested,  that  I looked  very  doubtful. 

We  know  they  come  here  to  be  frightened  and  infect 
one  another,”  said  my  sister. 

‘‘  With  the  exception  of  Bottles,”  I observed,  in  a med- 
itative tone. 

(The  deaf  stableman.  I kept  him  in  my  service,  and 
still  keep  him,  as  a phenomenon  of  moroseness  not  to  be 
matched  in  England.) 

To  be  sure,  John,”  assented  my  sister  ; ‘^except  Bot- 
tles. And  what  does  that  go  to  prove  ? Bottles  talks  to 
nobody,  and  hears  nobody  unless  he  is  absolutely  roared 
at,  and  what  alarm  lias  Bottles  ever  given,  or  taken  ! 
None.” 

This  was  perfectly  true  ; the  individual  in  question 
having  retired,  every  night  at  ten  o’clock,  to  his  bed  over 
the  coach-house,  with  no  other  company  than  a pitchfork 
and  a pail  of  water.  That  the  pail  of  water  would  have 
been  over  me,  and  the  pitchfork  through  me,  if  I had 
put  myself  without  announcement  in  Bottles’s  way  after 
that  minute,  I had  deposited  in  my  own  mind  as  a fact 
worth  remembering.  Neither  had  Bottles  ever  taken 
the  least  notice  of  any  of  our  many  uproars.  An  imper- 
turbable and  speechless  man,  he  had  sat  at  his  supper, 
with  Streaker  present  in  a swoon,  and  the  Odd  Girl  mar- 
ble, and  had  only  put  another  potato  in  his  cheek,  or 
profited  by  the  general  misery  to  help  himself  to  beef- 
steak pie. 

^‘And  so,”  continued  my  sister,  exempt  Bottles. 
And  considering,  John,  that  the  house  is  too  large,  and 
perhaps  too  lonely,  to  be  kept  well  in  hand  by  Bottles, 
you,  and  me,  I propose  that  we  cast  about  among  our 
friends  for  a certain  selected  number  of  the  most  relia- 
ble and  willing — form  a Society  here  for  three  months — 
wait  upon  ourselves  and  one  another — live  cheerfully 
and  socially — and  see  what  happens.” 

I was  so  charmed  with  my  sister,  that  I embraced  her 
on  the  spot,  and  went  into  her  plan  with  the  greatest  ar- 
dour. 


610 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


W e were  then  in  the  third  week  of  November  ; hut  we 
took  our  measures  so  vigorously,  and  were  so  well  sec- 
onded by  the  friends  in  whom  we  confided,  that  there 
was  still  a week  of  the  month  unexpired,  when  our  party 
all  came  down  together  merrily,  and  mustered  in  the 
haunted  house. 

I will  mention,  in  this  place,  two  small  changes  that  I 
inade  while  my  sister  and  I were  yet  alone.  It  occur- 
ring to  me  as  not  improbable  that  Turk  howled  in  the 
house  at  night,  partly  because  he  wanted  to  get  out  of  it, 
I stationed  him  in  his  kennel  outside,  but  unchained ; 
and  I seriously  warned  the  village  that  any  man  who 
came  in  his  way  must  not  expect  to  leave  him  without  a 
rip  in  his  own  throat.  I then  casually  asked  Ik^y  if  he 
were  a judge  of  a gun  ? On  his  saying,  Yes,  sir,  I 
knows  a good  gun  when  I sees  her,”  I begged  the  favour 
of  h\s  stepping  up  to  the  house  and  looking  at  mine. 

She’s  a true  one,  sir,”  said  Ikey,  after  inspecting,  a 
double-barrelled  rifle  that  I bought  in  New  York  a few 
years  ago.  “ No  mistake  about  her,  sir.” 

Ikey,”  said  I,  “don’t  mention  it ; I have  seen  some- 
thing in  this  house.” 

“No,  sir?”  he  whispered,  gi'^edily  opening  his  eyes. 
^’Ooded  lady,  sir?” 

“ Don’t  be  frightened,”  said  I.  It  was  a figure  rather 
like  you.” 

“Lord,  sir?” 

“Ikey  !”  said  I;  shaking  hands  with  him  warmly,  I 
may  say  affectionately,  “ if  there  is  any  truth  in  these 
ghost  stories,  the  greatest  service  I can  do  you  is  to  fire 
at  that  figure.  And  I promise  you,  by  heaven  and  earth, 
I will  do  it  with  this  gun  if  I see  it  again  ! ” 

The  young  man  thanked  me,  and  took  his  leave  with 
some  little  precipitation,  after  declining  a glass  of  liquor. 
I imparted  my  secret  to  him,  because  I had  never  quite 
forgotten  his  throwing  his  cap  at  the  bell ; because  I 
had,  on  another  occasion,  noticed  something  very  like  a 
fur  cap,  lying  not  far  from  the  bell,  one  night  when  it 
had  burst  out  ringing  ; and  because  I had  remarked  that 
we  were  at  our  ghostliest  whenever  Re  came  up  in  the 
evening  to  comfort  the  servants.  Let  me  do  Ikey  no  in- 
justice. He  was  afraid  of  the  house,  and  believed  in  its 
being  haunted;  and  yet  be  would  play  false  on  the 
haunting  side,  so  surely  as  h<.  ;^ot  an  opportunity.  The 
Odd  Girl’s  case  was  exactly  similar.  She  went  about 
the  house  in  a state  of  real  terror,  and  yet  lied  monstrous- 
ly and  wilfully,  and  invented  many  of  the  alarms  she 
spread,  and  made  many  of  the  sounds  we  heard.  I had 
had  my  eye  on  the  two,  and  I know  it.  It  is  not  neces- 
sary for  me,  here,  to  account  for  this  preposterous  state 
of  mind  ; I content  myself  with  remarking  that  it  is  fa- 
miliarly known  to  every  intelligent  man  who  has  had 


MiyCELLANEOUS, 


611 


fair  medical,  legal,  or  other  watchful  experience,  that  it 
is  as  well  established  and  as  common  a state  of  mind  as 
any  with  which  observers  are  acquainted,  and  that  it  is 
one  of  the  first  elements,  above  all  others,  rationally  to 
be  suspected  in,  and  strictly  looked  for,  and  separated 
from,  any  question  of  this  kind. 

To  return  to  our  party.  The  first  thing  that  we  did 
when  we  were  all  assembled,  was,  to  draw  lots  for  bed- 
rooms. That  done,  and  every  bedroom,  and  indeed,  the 
whole  house,  having  been  minutely  examined  by  the 
whole  body,  we  allotted  the  various  household  duties,  as 
if  we  had  been  on  a gipsy  party,  or  a yachting  party,  or 
a hunting  party,  or  were  shipwrecked.  I then  recount- 
ed the  floating  rumours  concerning  the  hooded  lady,  the 
owl,  and  Master  B.,  with  others  still  more  filmy,  which 
had  floated  about  during  our  occupation,  relative  to  some 
ridiculous  old  ghost  of  the  female  gender  who  went  ilp 
and  down,  carrying  the  ghost  of  around  table  ; and  also 
to  an  impalpable  jackass,  whom  nobody  was  ever  able  to 
catch.  Some  of  these  ideas  I really  believe  our  people 
below  had  communicated  to  one  another  in  some  diseased 
way,  without  conveying  them  in  words.  We  then  grave- 
ly called  one  another  to  witness  that  we  were  not  there 
to  be  deceived,  or  to  deceive — which  we  co»sidered  pret- 
ty much  the  same  thing — and  that,  with  a serious  sense 
of  responsibility,  we  would  be  strictly  true  to  one  another, 
and  would  strictly  follow  out  the  truth.  The  under- 
standing was  established,  that  any  one  who  heard  un- 
usual noises  in  the  night,  and  who  wished  to  trace  them, 
should  knock  at  my  door  ; lastly,  that  on  Twelfth  Night, 
the  last  night  of  holy  Christmas,  all  our  individual  ex- 
periences since  that  then  present  hour  of  our  coming  to- 
gether in  the  haunted  house,  should  be  brought  to  light 
for  the  good  of  all  ; and  that  we  would  hold  our  peace 
on  the  subject  till  then,  unless  on  some  remarkable  pro- 
vocation to  break  silence. 

We  were  in  number  and  in  character  as  follows  : 

First — to  get  my  sister  and  myself  out  of  the  way — 
there  were  we  two.  In  the  drawing  of  lots,  my  sister 
drew  her  own  room,  and  I drew  Master  B.’s.  Next  there 
was  our  first  cousin.  John  Herschel,  so  called  after  the 
great  astronomer,  than  whom  I suppose  a better  man  at 
a telescope  does  not  breathe.  With  him  was  his  wife,  a 
charming  creature  to  whom  he  had  been  married  in  the 
previous  spring.  I thought  it  (under  the  circumstances) 
rather  imprudent  to  bring  her,  because  there  is  no  know- 
ing what  even  a false  alarm  may  do  at  such  a time  ; out 
I suppose  he  knew  his  own  business  best,  and  I must  say 
that  if  she  had  been  my  wife,  I never  could  have  left  her 
endearing  and  bright  face  behind.  They  drew  the  Clock 
Boom.  Alfred  Starling,  an  uncommonly  agreeable  young 


612 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


fellow  of  eight-and -twenty,  for  whom  I have  the  greatest 
{iking,  was  in  the  Double  Room  • mine,  usually,  and  design 
Dated  by  that  name  from  having  a dressing-room  withirj 
it,  with  two  large  and  cumbersome  windows,  which  no 
wedges  I was  ever  able  to  make,  would  keep  from  shak^ 
Ing,  in  any  weather,  wind  or  no  wind.  Alfred  is  a young 
fellow  who  pretends  to  be  fast”  (another  word  for  loose, 
as  I understand  the  term),  but  who  is  much  too  good  and 
sensible  for  that  nonsense,  and  who  would  have  distin- 
guished himself  before  now,  if  his  father  had  not  unfor- 
tunately left  him  a small  independence  of  two  hundrecj 
a year,  on  the  strength  of  which  his  only  occupation  in 
life  has  been  to  spend  six.  1 am  in  hopes,  however,  that 
his  banker  may  break,  or  that  he  may  enter  into  some 
speculation  guaranteed  to  pay  twenty  per  cent ; for,  I am 
convinced  that  if  he  could  only  be  ruined,  his  fortune  is 
made.  Belinda  Bates,  bosom  friend  of  my  sister,  and  a 
most  intellectual,  amiable,  and  delightful  girl,  got  the 
Picture  Room.  She  has  a fine  genius  for  poetry,  com- 
bined with  real  business  earnestness,  and  ‘^goes  in  ” — ^to 
use  an  expression  of  Alfred's — ^for  Woman's  mission 
Woman's  rights.  Woman's  wrongs,  and  everything  that 
is  woman's  with  a capital  W,  or  is  not  and  ought  to  be, 
or  is  and  not  ought  to  be.  “ Most  praiseworthy,  my  dear, 
and  Heaven  prosper  you  !”  I whisper  tcTher  on  the  first 
night  of  my  taking  leave  of  her  at  the  Picture-Room 
door,  ‘‘  but  don't  overdo  it.  And  in  respect  of  the  great 
necessity  there  is,  my  darling,  for  more  employments 
being  within  the  reach  of  Woman  than  our  civilization 
has  as  yet  assigned  to  her,  don’t  fly  at  the  unfortunate 
men,  even  those  men  who  are  at  first  sight  in  your  way, 
as  if  they  were  the  natural  oppressors  of  your  sex  ; for, 
trust  me,  Belinda,  they  do  sometimes  spend  their  wages 
among  wives  and  daughters,  sisters,  mothers,  aunts,  and 
grandmothers  ; and  the  play  is,  really,  not  all  Wolf  and 
Red  Riding-Hood,  but  has  other  parts  in  it.”  However, 
I digress. 

Belinda,  as  I have  mentioned, . occupied  the  Picture 
Room.  We  had  but  three  other  chambers  : the  Corner 
Room,  the  Cupboard  Room,  and  the  Garden  Room.  My 
old  friend,  Jack  Governor,  Slung  his  hammock,”  as  he 
called  it,  in  the  Corner  Room.  I have  always  regarded 
Jack  as  the  finest-looking  sailor  that  ever  sailed.  He  is 
gray  now,  but  as  handsome  as  he  was  a quarter  of  a cen- 
tury ago — nay,  handsomer.  A portly,  cheery,  well-built 
figure  of  a broad-shouldered  man,  with  a frank  smile,  a 
brilliant  dark  eye,  and  a rich  dark  eyebrow.  I remember 
those  under  darker  hair,  and  they  look  all  the  better  for 
their  silver  setting.  He  has  been  wherever  his  Union 
namesake  flies,  has  Jack,  and  I have  met  old  shipmates 
of  his,  away  in  the  Mediterranean  and  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Atlantic,  who  have  beamed  and  brightened  at  the 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


613 

casual  mention  of  Ms  name,  and  have  cried,  You  know 
Jack  Governor? Then  you  know  a prince  of  meni"' 
That  he  is  I And  so  unmistakably  a naval  officer,  that  if 
you  were  to  meet  him  coming  out  of  an  Esquimaux  snow- 
nut  in  seal's  skin  you  would  be  vaguely  persuaded  he 
was  in  full  naval  uniform. 

Jack  once  had  that  bright,  clear  eye  of  his  on  my  sis- 
ter ; but  it  fell  out  that  he  married  another  lady  and 
took  her  to  South  America,  where  she  died.  This  was  a 
dozen  years  or  more.  He  brought  down  with  him  to  our 
haunted  house  a little  cask  of  salt  beef  ; for,  he  is  always 
convinced  that  all  salt  beef  not  of  his  own  pickling,  is 
mere  carrion,  and  invariably,  when  he  goes  to  London, 
packs  a piece  in  his  portmanteau.  He  had  also  volun- 
teered to  bring  with  him  one  ‘‘  Nat  Beaver,"  an  old  com- 
rade of  his,  captain  of  a merchantman.  Mr.  Beaver, 
with  a thick-set,  wooden  face  and  figure,  and  apparently 
as  hard  as  a block  all  over,  proved  to  be  an  intelligent 
man,  with  a world  of  watery  experiences  in  him,  and 
great  practical  knowledge.  At  times,  there  was  a curi- 
ous nervousness  about  him,  apparently  the  lingering  re- 
sult of  some  old  illness  ; but  it  seldom  lasted  many  min- 
utes. He  got  the  Cupboard  Room,  and  lay  there  next  to 
Mr.  Uii.dery,  my  friend  and  solicitor,  who  came  down,  in 
an  amateur  capacity,  “to  go  through  with  it,"  as  he 
said,  and  who  plays  whist  better  than  the  whole  Law 
List,  from  the  red  cover  at  the  beginning  to  the  red  cover 
at  the  end. 

I never  was  happier  in  my  life,  and  I believe  it  was 
the  universal  feeling  among  us.  Jack  Governor,  always 
^ man  of  wonderful  resources,  was  Chief  Cook,  and  made 
some  of  the  best  dishes  I ever  ate,  including  unapproach- 
able curries.  My  sister  was  pastrycook  and  confectioner, 
Btarling  and  I were  Cook's  Mate,  turn  and  turn  about, 
and  on  special  occasions  the  chief  cook  “ press  " Mr. 
Beaver.  We  had  a great  deal  of  out-door  sport  and  ex- 
ercise, but  nothing  was  neglected  within,  and  there  was 
no  ill-hum.our  or  misunderstanding  among  us,  and  our 
evenings  were  so  delightful  that  we  had  at  least  one 
good  reason  for  being  reluctant  to  go  to  bed. 

We  had  a few  night  alarms  in  the  beginning.  On  the 
first  might,  I was  knocked  up  by  Jack  with  a most  won- 
derful ship's  lantern  in  his  hand,  like  the  gill  of  some 
monster  of  the  deep,  who  informed  me  that  he  was 
“going  aloft  to  the  main-truck,"  to  have  the  weather-  * 
cock  down.  It  was  a stormy  night,  and  I remonstrated  ; 
but  Jack  called  my  attention  to  its  making  a sound  like 
a cry  of  despair,  and  said  somebody  w^ould  be  “hailing a 
ghost"  presently,  if  it  wasn't  done.  So,  up  to  the  top  of 
the  house,  where  I could  hardly  stand  for  the  wind,  we 
went,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Beaver : and  there  Jack,  Ian- 


614 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tern  and  all,  witli  Mr.  Beaver  after  Lim,  swarmed  up  to 
the  top  of  the  cupola,  some  two  dozen  feet  above  the 
chimneys,  and  stood  upon  nothing  particular,  coolly 
knocking  the  weathercock  off,  until  they  both  got  into 
such  good  spirits  with  the  wind  and  the  height,  that  I 
thought  they  would  never  come  down.  Another  night, 
they  turned  out  again , and  had  a chimney-cowl  off.  Anoth- 
er night,  they  cut  a sobbing  and  gulping  water-pipe  away. 
Another  night,  they  found  out  something  else.  On  sev- 
eral occasions,  they  both,  in  the  coolest'  manner,  simul- 
taneously dropped  out  of  their  respective  bedroom  win- 
dows, hand  over  hand  by  their  counterpanes,  to  over- 
haul something  mysterious  in  the  garden. 

The  engagement  among  us  was  faithfully  kept,  and 
nobody  revealed  anything.  All  we  knew  was,  if  any 
one’s  room  were  haunted,  no  one  looked  the  worse  for  it. 

THE  GHOST  IN  MASTER  B.’S  ROOM. 

When  I established  myself  in  the  triangular  garret 
which  had  gained  so  distinguished  a reputation,  my 
thoughts  naturally  turned  to  Master  B.  My  speculations 
about  him  were  uneasy  and  manifold.  Whether  his 
Christian  name  was  Benjamin,  Bissextile  (from  having 
been  born  in  Leap  Year),  Bartholomew, or  Bill.  Whether 
the  initial  letter  belonged  to  his  family  name,  and  that 
was  Baxter,  Black,  Brown,  Barker,  Buggins,  Baker,  or 
Bird.  Whether  he  was  a foundling,  and  had  been  bap- 
tized B.  Whether  he  was  a lion-hearted  boy,  and  B. 
was  short  for  Briton,  or  for  Bull.  Whether  he  could 
possibly  have  been  kith  and  kin  to  an  illustrious  lady 
who  brightened  my  own  childhood,  and  had  come  of  the 
brilliant  Mother  Bunch. 

With  these  profitless  meditations  I tormented  myself 
much.  1 also  carried  the  mysterious  letter  into  the  ap- 
pearance and  pursuits  of  the  deceased ; wondering 
whether  he  dressed  in  Blue,  wore  Boots  (he  couldn’t  have 
been  Bald),  was  a boy  of  Brains,  liked  Books,  was  good 
at  Bowling,  had  any  skill  as  a Boxer,  even  in  his  Buoy- 
ant Boyhood  Bathed  from  the  Bathing-machine  at  Bog- 
nor,  Bangor,  Bournemouth,  Brighton,  or  Broadstairs, 
like  a Bounding  Billiard  Ball  ? 

So,  from  the  first  I was  haunted  by  the  letter  B. 

It  was  not  long  before  I remarked  that  I never  by  any 
hazard  had  a dream  of  Master  B.,  or  for  ano thing  belong- 
ing to  him.  But  the  instant  I awoke  from  sleep,  at 
whatever  hour  of  the  night,  my  thoughts  took  him  up, 
and  roamed  away,  trying  to  attach  his  initial  letter  to 
something  that  would  fit  it  and  keep  it  quiet. 

For  six  nights  I had  been  worried  thus  in  Master  B.’s 
room,  when  I began  to  perceive  that  things  were  going 
wrong. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


615 


The  first  appearance  that  presented  itself  was  early  in 
the  morning,  when  it  was  bnt  just  daylight  and  no  more. 
I was  standing  shaving  at  my  glass,  when  I suddenly 
discovered,  to  my  consternation  and  amazement,  that  I 
was  shaving — not  myself — I am  fifty — but  a boy.  Ap- 
parently Master  B.  ? 

I trembled  and  looked  over  my  shoulder  ; nothing 
there.  I looked  again  in  the  glass,  and  distinctly  saw 
the  features  and  expression  of  a boy,  who  was  shaving, 
not  to  get  rid  of  a beardt  but  to  get  one.  Extremely 
troubled  in  my  mind,  I took  a few  turns  in  the  room,  and 
went  back  to  the  looking-glass,  resolved  to  steady  my 
hand  and  complete  the  operation  in  which  I had  beeir 
disturbed.  Opening  my  eyes,  which  I had  shut  while 
recovering  my  firmness,'!  now  met  in  the  glass,  looking 
straight  at  me,  the  eyes  of  a young  man  of  four  or  five 
and  twenty.  Terrified  by  this  new  ghost,  I closed  my 
eyes,  and  made  a strong  effort  to  recover  myself.  Open, 
ing  them  again,  I saw,  shaving  his  cheek  in  f ie  glass, 
my  father,  who  had  long  been  dead.  Nay,  I even  saw 
my  grandfather  too,  whom  I never  did  see  in  my  life. 

Although  naturally  affected  by  these  remarkable  visi- 
tations, I determined  to  keep  my  secret  until  the  time 
agreed  upon  for  the  present  general  disclosure.  Agitated 
by  a multitude  of  curious  thoughts  I retired  to  my  room, 
that  night,  prepared  to  encounter  some  new  experience 
of  a spectral  character.  Nor  was  my  preparation  need« 
less,  for,  waking  from  an  uneasy  sleep,  at  exactly  two 
o’clock  in  the  morning,  what  were  my  feelings  to  find 
that  I was  sharing  my  bed  with  the  skeleton  of  Master  B. 

I sprang  up,  and  the  skelton  sprang  up  also,  I then 
heard  a plaintive  voice  saying,  Where  am  I ? What  is 
become  of  me?”  and,  looking  hard  in  that  direction, 
perceived  the  ghost  of  Master  B. 

The  young  spectre  was  dressed  in  an  obsolete  fashion  ; 
or  rather,  was  not  so  much  dressed  as  put  into  a case  of 
inferior  pepper-and-salt  cloth,  made  horribly  by  means 
of  shining  buttons.  I observed  that  these  buttons  went, 
in  a double  row  over  each  shoulder  of  the  young  ghost, 
and  appeared  to  descend  his  back.  He  wore  a frill  round 
his  neck.  His  right  hand  (which  I distinctly  noticed  to 
be  inky)  was  laid  upon  his  stomach ; connecting  this 
action  with  some  feeble  pimples  on  his  countenance,  and 
his  general  air  of  nausea,  I concluded  this  ghost  to  be 
the  ghost  of  a boy  who  had  habitually  taken  a great  deal 
too  much  medicine. 

Where  am  I ? ” said  the  little  spectre,  in  a pathetic 
voice.  And  why  was  I born  in  the  Calomel  days,  and 
why  did  I have  all  that  Calomel  given  me  ? ” 

I replied,  with  sincere  earnestness,  that  upon  my  soul 
I couldn’t  tell  him. 


616 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  HICKENS. 


Where  is  my  little  sister/’  said  the  ghost,  ''and 
where  my  angelic  little  wife,  and  where  is  the  boy  I 
went  to  school  with  ? ’’ 

I entreated  the  phantom  to  be  comforted,  and  above 
all  things  to  take  heart  in  respecting  the  loss  of  the  boy 
he  went  to  school  with.  I represented  to  him  that  prob- 
ably that  boy  hever  did,  within  human  experience,  come 
out  well,  when  discovered.  I urged  that  I myself  had, 
in  later  life,  turned  up  several  boys  whom  I went  to 
school  with,  and  none  of  thena  had  at  all  answered.  I 
expressed  my  humble  belief  that  that  boy  never  did 
answer.  I represented  that  he  was  a mythic  character, 
a delusion,  and  a snare.  I recounted  how,  the  last  time 
I found  him,  I found  him  at  a dinner  party  behind  a 
wail  of  white  cravat,  with  an  inconclusive  opinion  on 
every  possible  subject,  and  a power  of  silent  boredom 
absolutely  Titanic.  I related  how,  on  the  strength  of 
our  having  been  together  at  " Old  Doylance’s  ’’  he  had 
asked  himself  to  breakfast  with  me  (a  social  offence  of 
the  largest  magnitude) ; how,  fanning  my  weak  embers 
of  belief  in  Doylance’s  boys,  I had  let  him  in  ; and  how, 
he  had  proved  to  be  a fearful  wanderer  about  the  earth, 
pursuing  the  race  of  Adam  with  inexplicable  notions 
concerning  the  currency,  and  with  a proposition  that  the 
Bank  of  England  should,  on  pain  of  being  abolished, 
instantly  strike  off  and  circulate,  God  knows  how  many 
thousand  millions  of  ten-and-six-penny  notes. 

The  ghost  heard  me  in  silence,  and  with  a fixed  stare. 
" Barber  ! ’’  it  apostrophized  me  when  I finished. 

" Barber  I repeated — for  I am  not  of  that  profes- 

sion, 

"Condemned,’^  said  the  ghost,  " to  have  a constant 
change  of  customers — now  me — now  a young  man— now 
thyself  as  thou  art — now  thy  father — now  thy  grand- 
father  ; condemned,  too,  to  lie  down  with  a skeleton 
every  night,  and  to  rise  with  it  every  morn — ’’ 

(I  shuddered  on  hearing  this  announcement.) 

"Barber!  Pursue  me!” 

I had  felt  even  before  the  words  were  uttered,  that  I 
was  under  a spell  to  pursue  the  phantom.  I immediately 
did  so,  and  was  in  Master  B.’s  room  no  longer. 

Most  people  know  what  long  and  fatiguing  night- 
journeys  had  been  forced  upon  the  witches  who  used  to 
confess^  and  who,  no  doubt,  told  the  exact  truth — par- 
ticularly as  they  were  always  assisted  with  leading  ques- 
tions, and  the  Torture  was  always  ready.  I asseverate 
that,  during  my  occupation  of  Master  B.’s  room,  I was 
taken  by  the  ghost  that  haunted  it,  on  expeditions  fully 
as  long  and  wild  as  any  of  those.  Assuredly,  I was  pre- 
sented to  no  shabby  old  man  with  goat’s  horns  and  tail 
(something  between  Pan  and  an  old-clothesman),  holding 


mSCELLANEOUS. 


617 


conventional  conceptions,  as  stupid  as  those  of  real  life 
and  less  decent ; but,  I game  upon  other  things  which 
appeared  to  me  to  have  more  meaning. 

Confident  that  I speak  the  truth  and  shall  be  believed, 
I declare  without  hesitation,  that  I follov/ed  the  ghost, 
in  the  first  instance  on  a broom-stick,  and  afterwards  on 
a rocking-horse.  The  very  smell  of  the  animaTs  paint 
— especially  when  I brought  it  out,  by  making  him  warm 
— I am  ready  to  swear  to.  I followed  the  ghost,  after- 
wards, in  a hackney  coach — an  institution  with  the 
peculiar  smell  of  which  the  present  generation  is  unac- 
quainted, but  to  which  I am  again  ready  to  swear  as  a 
combination  of  stable,  dog  with  the  mange,  and  very 
old  bellows.  (In  this,  I appeal  to  previous  generations  to 
confirm  or  refute  me.)  I pursued  the  phantom  on  a head- 
less donkey — at  least,  upon  a donkey  who  was  so  inter- 
ested in  the  state  of  his  stomach  that  his  head  was  always 
down  there,  investigating  it,  on  ponies,  expressly  born 
to  kick  up  behind ; on  the  roundabouts  and  swings, 
from  fair  ; in  the  first  cab — another  forgotten  institution 
where  the  fare  regularly  got  into  bed,  and  v/as  tucked 
up  with  the  driver.  Not  to  trouble  you  with  a detailed 
account  of  all  my  travels  in  pursuit  of  the  ghost  of 
Master  B.,  which  were  longei*  and  more  wonderful  than 
those  of  Sindbad  the  Sailor,  I will  confine  myself  to  one 
experience,  from  which  you  may  judge  of  many. 

I was  marvellously  changed.  I was  myself,  yet  not 
myself.  I was  conscious  of  something  within  me  which, 
has  been  the  same  ail  through  my  life,  and  which  I have 
always  recognized  under  all  its  phases  a varieties  as 
never  altering,  and  yet  I was  not  the  I who  had  gone  to 
bed  in  Master  B.’s  room.  I had  the  smoothest  of  faces 
and  the  shortest  of  legs,  and  I had  taken  another  creature 
like  myself,  also  with  the  smoothest  of  faces  and  the 
shortest  of  legs,  behind  a door,  and  was  confiding  t© 
him  a proposition  of  the  most  astounding  nature. 

This  proposition  was,  that  we  should  have  a Seraglio. 

The  other  creature  assented  warmly.  He  had  no  notion 
of  respectability : neither  had  I.  It  was  the  custom  of 
the  East,  it  was  the  way  of  the  good  Caliph  Haroun 
Alraschid  (let  me  have  the  corrupted  name  again  for 
once,  it  is  so  scented  with  sweet  memories  !),  the  usage 
was  highly  laudable,  and  most  worthy  of  imitation. 

O yes  ! let  us,”  said  the  other  creature,  with  a jump, 
“ have  a Seraglio.” 

It  was  not  because  we  entertained  the  faintest  doubts 
of  the  meritorious  character  of  the  Oriental  establish- 
ment we  proposed  to  import,  that  we  perceived  it  must 
be  kept  a secret  from  Miss  Griffin.  It  was  because  we 
knew  Miss  Griffin  to  be  bereft  of  human  sympathies, 
and  incapable  of  appreciating  the  greatness  of  the  great 


618 


WORKS  OP  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Haroun.  Mystery  impenetrably  shrouded  from  Miss 
Griffin  then,  let  us  entrust  it  to  Miss  Buie. 

We  were  ten  in  Miss  Griffin’s  establishment  by  Hamp- 
stead Ponds  ; eight  ladies  and  two  gentlemen.  Miss 
Buie,  whom  I judge  to  have  attained  the  ripe  age  of 
eight  or  nine,  took  the  lead  in  society.  I opened  the 
subject  to  her  in  the  course  of  the  day,  and  proposed 
that  she  should  become  the  Favourite. 

Miss  Buie,  after  struggling  with  the  diffidence  so 
natural  to,  and  charming  in,  her  adorable  sex,  expressed 
herself  as  flattered  by  the  idea,  but  wished  to  know  how 
it  was  proposed  to  provide  for  Miss  Pipson?  Miss  Buie 
— who  was  understood  to  have  vowed  towards  that  young 
lady  a friendship,  halves,  and  no  secrets,  until  death,  on 
the  Church  Service  and  Lessons  complete  in  two  volumes 
with  case  and  lock — Miss  Buie  said  she  could  not,  as  the 
friend  of  Pipson,  disguise  from  herself,  or  me,  that  Pip- 
son  was  not  one  of  the  common. 

Now,  Miss  Pipson,  having  curly,  light  hair  and  blue 
eyes  (which  was  my  idea  of  anything  mortal  and  femi- 
nine that  was  called  Fair),  I promptly  replied  that  I re- 
garded Miss  Pipson  in  the  light  of  Fair  Circassian. 

And  what  then  ? ” Miss  Buie  pensively  asked. 

I replied  that  she  must  be  inveigled  by  a merchant, 
brought  to  me  veiled,  and  purchased  as  a slave. 

[The  other  creature  had  already  fallen  into  the  second 
male  place  in  the  State,  and  set  apart  for  Grand  Vizier. 
He  afterwards  resisted  this  disposal  of  events,  but  had 
his  hair  pulled  until  he  yielded.) 

Shall  I not  be  jealous?”  Miss  Buie  inquired,  casting 
down  her  eyes. 

Zobeide,  no,”  I replied,  **  you  will  ever  be  the  favour- 
ite Sultana  ; the  first  place  in  my  heart,  and  on  my 
throne,  will  be  ever  yours. 

Miss  Buie,  upon  that  assurance,  consented  to  propound 
the  idea  to  her  seven  beautiful  companions.  It  occur- 
ring to  me  in  the  course  of  the  same  day,  that  we  knew 
we  could  trust  a grinning  and  good-natured  soul  callea 
Tabby,  v/ho  was  the  serving  drudge  of  the  house,  and 
had  no  more  figure  than  one  of  the  beds,  and  upon  whose 
face  there  was  always  more  or  less  blacklead,  I slipped 
into  Miss  Buie’s  hand  after  supper,  a little  note  to  that 
effect : dwelling  on  the  black-lead  as  being  in  a manner 
deposited  by  the  finger  of  Providence,  pointing  Tabby 
out  for  Mesrour,  the  celebrated  chief  of  the  Blacks  of 
the  Harem.  , 

There  were  difficulties  in  the  formation  of  the  desired 
institution,  as  there  are  in  all  combinations.  The  other 
creature  showed  himself  of  a low  character,  and,  when 
defeated  in  aspiring  to  the  throne,  pretended  to  have  con- 
scientious scruples  about  prostrating  himself  before 
Caliph  ; wouldn’t  call  him  Commander  of  the  Faithful ; 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


619 


spoke  of  him  slightingly  and  inconsistently  ac  a mere 
“chap;”  said  he,  the  other  creature,  “wouldn’t  play” 
— Play  I— :and  was  otherwise  coarse  and  offensive.  This 
meanness  of  disposition  was,  however,  put  down  by  the 
general  indignation  of  an  united  Seraglio,  and  I became 
blessed  in  the  smiles  of  eight  of  the  fairest  of  the  daugh- 
ters of  men. 

The  smiles  could  only  be  bestowed  when  Miss  GrilBn 
was  looking  another  way,  and  only  then  in  a very  wary 
manner,  for  there  was  a legend  among  the  followers  of 
the  Prophet  that  she  saw  with  a little  round  ornament 
In  the  middle  of  the  pattern  on  the  back  of  her  shawl. 
But  every  day  after  dinner,  for  an  hour,  we  were  all  to- 
gether, and  then  the  Favorite  and  the  rest  of  the  Royal 
Harem  competed  who  should  most  beguile  the  leisure  of 
the  Serene  Haroun  reposing  from  the  cares  of  State — 
which  were  generally,  as  in  most  affairs  of  State,  of  an 
arithmetical  character,  the  Commander  of  the  Faithful 
being  a fearful  boggier  at  a sum. 

On  these  occasions,  the  devoted  Mesrour,  chief  of  the 
Blacks  of  the  Harem,  was  always  in  attendance  (Miss 
Griffin  usually  ringing  for  that  officer,  at  the  same  time, 
with  great  vehemence),  but  never  acquitted  himself  in  a 
manner  worthy  of  his  historical  reputation.  In  the  first 
place,  his  bringing  a broom  into  the  Divan  of  the  Caliph, 
even  when  Haroun  wore  on  his  shoulders  the  red  robe  of 
anger  (Miss  Pipson’s  pelisse),  though  it  might  be  got 
over  for  the  moment,  was  never  to  be  quite  satisfactorily 
accounted  for.  In  the  second  place,  his  breaking  out 
into  grinning  exclamations  of  “ Lork,  you  pretties  ! ” was 
neither  Eastern  nor  respectful.  In  the  third  place,  when 
specially  instructed  to  say  “ Bismillah  ! ” he  always  said 
“Hallelujah?”  This  officer,  unlike  his  class,  was  too 
good-humored  altogether,  kept  his  mouth  open  far  too 
wide,  expressed  approbation  to  an  incongruous  extent, 
and  even  once — it  was  on  the  occasion  of  the  purchase  of 
the  Fair  Circassian  for  five  hundred  thousand  purses  of 
gold,  and  cheap,  too — embraced  the  Slave,  the  Favourite, 
and  the  Caliph,  all  round.  (Parenthetically  let  me  say 
God  bless  Mesrour,  and  may  there  have  been  sons  and 
daughters  on  that  tender  bosom,  softening  many  a hard 
day  since  1) 

Miss  Griffin  was  a model  of  propriety,  and  I am  at  a 
loss  to  imagine  what  the  feelings  of  the  virtuous  woman 
would  have  been,  if  she  had  known,  when  she  paraded 
us  down  the  Hampstead  road  two  and  two,  that  she  was 
walking  with  a stately  step  at  the  head  of  Polygamy  and 
Mohammedanism.  I believe  that  a mysteriou^and  ter- 
rible joy  with  which  the  contemplation  of  Miss  Griffin, 
in  this  unconscious  state,  inspired  us,  and  a grim  sense 
prevalent  among  us  that  there  was  a dreadful  power  in 
our  knowledge  of  what  Miss  Griffin  (who  knew  all  things 


620 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


that  could  be  learnt  out  of  book)  didn’t  know,  were  the 
iaaainspring  of  the  preservation  of  our  secret.  It  was 
wonderfully  kept,  but  was  once  upon  the  verge  of  self- 
betrayal.  The  danger  and  escape  occurred  upon  a Sun- 
day.  We  were  all  ten  ranged  in  a conspicuous  part  of 
the  gallery  at  church,  with  Miss  Griffin  at  our  head — as 
we  were  every  Sunday — advertising  the  establishment 
in  an  unsecular  sort  of  way — when  the  description  of 
Solomon  in  his  domestic  glory  happened  to  be  read. 
The  moment  that  monarch  was  thus  referred  to,  con- 
science whispered  me,  ‘'Thou,  too,  Haroun!”  The 
officiating  minister  had  a cast  in  his  eye,  and  it  assisted 
conscience  by  giving  him  the  appearance  of  reading  per- 
sonally at  me.  A crimson  blush,  attended  by  a fearful 
perspiration,  suffused  my  features.  The  Grand  Vizier 
became  more  dead  than  alive,  and  the  whole  Seraglio 
reddened  as  if  the  sunset  of  Bagdad  shone  direct  upon 
their  lovely  faces.  At  this  portentous  time  the  awful 
Griffin  rose,  and  balefully  surveyed  the  children  of  Islam. 
My  own  impression  was,  that  Church  and  State  had 
entered  into  a conspiracy  with  Miss  Griffin  to  expose  us, 
and  that  we  should  be  put  into  white  sheets,  and  exhib- 
ited in  the  centre  aisle.  But,  so  Westerly — if  I may  be 
allowed  the  expression  as  opposite  to  Eastern  associa-' 
tions — was  Miss  Griffin’s  sense  of  rectitude,  that  she 
merely  suspected  Apples,  and  we  were  saved. 

I have  called  the  Seraglio  united.  Upon  the  Question, 
solely,  whether  the  Commander  of  the  Faithful  durst 
exercise  a right  of  kissing  in  that  sanctuary  of  the  pal- 
ace, where  its  peerless  inmates  divided.  Zobeide  assert- 
ed a counter  right  in  the  Favourite  to  scratch,  and  the 
fair  Circassian  put  her  face,  for  refuge,  into  a green 
baize  bag,  originally  designed  for  books.  On  the  other 
hand,  a young  antelope  of  transcendent  beauty  from  the 
fruitful  plains  of  Camden-town  (whence  she  had  been 
brought,  by  traders,  in  the  half-yearly  caravan  that  cross- 
ed the  intermediate  desert  after  the  holidays),  held  more 
liberal  opinions,  but  stipulated  for  limiting  the  benefit 
of  them  to  that  dog,  and  son  of  a dog,  the  Grand  Vizier 
—who  had  no  rights,  and  was  not  in  question.  At  length, 
the  difficulty  was  compromised  by  the  installation  of  a 
very  youthful  slave  as  Deputy.  She,  raised  upon  a stool, 
officially  received  upon  her  cheeks  the  salutes  intended 
by  the  gracious  Haroun  for  other  Sultanas,  and  was 
privately  rewarded  from  the  coffers  of  the  Ladies  of  the 
Harem. 

And  now  it  was,  at  the  full  height  of  enjoyment  of  my 
bliss,  that  I became  heavily  troubled.  I began  to  think 
of  my  mother,  and  what  she  would  say  to  my  taking 
home  at  Midsummer  eight  of  the  most  beautiful  of  the 
daughters  of  men,  but  all  unexpected.  I thought  of  the 
number  of  beds  we  made  up  at  our  house,  of  my  father’s 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


621 


income,  and  of  fhe  baker,  and  my  despondency  redoubled. 
The  Seraglio  and  malicious  Vizier,  divining  the  cause  of 
their  Lord’s  unhappiness,  did  their  utmost  to  augment 
it.  They  professed  unbounded  fidelity,  and  declared 
that  they  would  live  and  die  with  him.  Reduced  to  the 
utmost  wretchedness  by  these  protestations  of  attach- 
ment, I lay  awake,  for  hours  at  a time,  ruminating  on 
my  frightful  lot.  In  my  despair,  I think  I might  have 
taken  an  early  opportunity  of  falling  on  my  knees  before 
Miss  Griffin,  avowing  my  resemblance  to  Solomon,  and 
praying  to  be  dealt  with  according  to  the  outraged  laws 
of  my  country,  if  an  unthought-of  means  of  escape  had 
not  opened  before  me. 

One  day  we  were  out  walking,  two  and  two— on  which 
occasion  the  Vizier  had  his  usual  instructions  to  take 
note  of  the  boy  at  the  turnpike,  and  if  he  profanely 
gazed  (which  he  always  did)  at  the  beauties ~of  the  Har- 
em, to  have  him  bowstrung  in  the  course  of  the  night— 
and  it  happened  that  our  hearts  were  veiled  in  gloom. 
An  unaccountable  action  on  the  part  of  the  antelope  had 
plunged  the  State  into  disgrace.  That  charmer,  on  the 
representation  that  the  previous  day  was  her  birthday, 
and  that  vast  treasures  had  been  sent  in  a hamper  for  its 
celebration  (both  baseless  assertions),  had  scarcely  but 
most  pressingly  invited  thirty-five  princes  and  princesses 
to  a ball  and  supper,  with  a special  stipulation  that  they 
were  ‘‘  not  to  be  fetched  till  twelve.”  This  wandering 
of  the  antelopes  fancy,  led  to  the  surprising  arrival  at 
Miss  Griffin’s  door,  in  divers  equipages  and  under  various 
escorts  of  a great  company  in  full  dress,  who  were  de- 
posited on  the  top  step  in  a flush  of  high  expectancy, 
and  who  were  dismissed  in  tears.  At  the  beginning 
the  double  knocks  attendant  on  these  ceremonies,  the 
antelope  had  retired  to  a back  attic,  and  bolted  herself 
in  ; and  at  every  new  arrival.  Miss  Griffin  had  gone  so 
much  more  and  more  distracted,  that  at  last  she  had 
been  seen  to  tear  her  front.  Ultimate  capitulation  on 
the  part  of  the  offender,  had  been  followed  by  solitude 
in  the  linen-closet,  bread  and  water,  and  a lecture  to  all, 
of  vindictive  length,  in  which  Miss  Gifford  had  used  ex- 
pressions : Firstly,  I believe  you  all  of  you  knew  of 
it ; ” Secondly,  Every  one  of  you  is  as  wicked  as  an- 
other ; ” Thirdly,  “ A pack  of  little  wretches.” 

Under  these  circumstances,  we  were  walking  drearily 
along  ; and  I especially,  with  my  Mussulman  responsibiU 
ities  heavy  on  me,  was  in  a very  low  state  of  mind  ; 
when  a strange  man  accosted  Miss  Griffin,  and,  after 
Walking  on  at  her  side  for  a little  while  and  talking  with^ 
her,  looked  at  me.  Supposing  him  to  be  a minion  of  the 
law,  and  that  my  hour  was  come,  I instantly  ran  away^ 
with  a general  purpose  of  making  for  Egy^pt. 

The  whole  Seraglio  cried  out,  when  they  saw  me 


622 


WORKS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


mg  off  as  fast  as  njy  legs  would  carry  me  (I  had  an  im- 
pression that  the  first  turning  on  the  left,  and  round  by 
the  public-house,  would  be  the  shortest  way  to  the  Pyr- 
amids), Miss  Griffin  screamed  after  me,  the  faithless 
Vizier  ran  after  me,  and  the  boy  at  the  turnpike  dodged 
me  into  a corner,  like  a sheep,  and  cut  me  off.  Nobody 
scolded  me  when  I was  taken  and  brought  back  ; Miss 
Griffin  only  said,  with  a stunning  gentleness,  This  was 
very  curious  ! Why  had  I run  away  when  the  gentle- 
man looked  at  me  ? 

If  I had  had  any  breath  to  answer  with,  I dare  say  I 
should  have  made  no  answer  ; having  no  breath  I certain- 
ly made  none.  Miss  Griffin  and  the  strange  man  took  me 
between  them  and  walked  me  back  to  the  palace  in  a sort 
of  state  ; but  not  at  all  (as  I couldn’t  help  feeling,  with 
astonishment),  in  culprit  state. 

When  we  got  there,  we  went  into  a room  by  ourselves, 
and  Miss  Griffin  called  in  to  her  assistance,  Mesrour,  on 
being  whispered  to,  began  to  shed  tears. 

Bless  you,  my  precious  ! ” said  that  officer,  turning 
to  me  ; “ your  Pa’s  took  bitter  bad  ! ” 

I asked,  with  a fluttered  heart,  ‘‘Is  he  very  ill?  ” 

“ Lord  temper  the  wind  to  you,  my  lamb  ! ” said  the 
good  Mesrour,  kneeling  down,  that  I might  have  a com- 
forting shoulder  for  my  head  to  rest  on,  “your  Pa’s 
dead  ! ” 

Haroun  Alraschid  took  to  flight  at  the  words  ; the  Ser- 
aglio vanished  ; from  that  moment,  I never  again  saw 
one  of  the  eight  of  the  fairest  of  the  daughters  of  men. 

I was  taken  home,  and  there  was  Debt  at  home  as 
well  as  Death,  and  we  had  a sale  there.  My  own  little 
bed  was  so  superciliously  looked  upon  by  a Power  un- 
known to  me,  hazily  called  “ The  IVade,”  that  a brass 
coal-scuttle,  a roasting-jack,  and  a bird-cage,  were 
obliged  to  be  put  into  it  to  make  a Lot  of  it,  and  then  it 
went  for  a song.  So  I heard  mentioned,  and  I wondered 
what  song,  and  thought  what  a dismal  song  it  must 
have  been  to  sing  ! 

Then,  I was  sent  to  a great,  cold,  bare,  school  of  big 
boys  ; where  everything  to  eat  and  wear  was  thick  and 
clumpy,  without  being  enough  ; where  everybody,  large 
and  small,  was  cruel  ; where  the  boys  knew  all  about 
the  sale,  before  I got  there,  and  asked  me  what  I had 
fetched,  and  who  had  bought  me,  and  hooted  at  me, 
“ Going,  going,  gone  ! ” I never  whispered  in  that 
wretched  place  that  I had  been  Haroun,  or  had  had  a 
Seraglio  ; for  I knew  that  if  I mentioned  my  reverses,  I 
should  be  so  worried,  that  I should  have  to  drown  my- 
self in  the  muddy  pond  near  the  play-ground,  which 
looked  like  the  beer. 

Ah  me,  ah  me  ! No  other  ghost  has  haunted  the  boy’s 


MISCELLAi^EOUS. 


623 


room,  my  friends,  since  I have  occupied  it,  than  the 
ghost  of  my  own  childhood,  the  ghost  of  my  own  inno- 
cence, the  ghost  of  my  own  airy  belief.  Many  a time 
have  I pursued  the  phantom— never  with  this  man’s 
stride  of  mine  to  come  up  with  it,  never  with  these 
man’s  hands  of  mine  to  touch  it,  never  more  to  this 
man’s  heart  of  mine  to  hold  it  in  its  purity.  And  here 
you  see  me  working  out,  as  cheerfully  and  thankfully 
as  I may,  my  doom  of  shaving  in  the  glass  a constant 
change  of  customers,  and  of  lying  down  and  rising  up 
with  the  skeleton  allotted  to  me  for  my  mortal  compan- 
ion. 


END  OF  VOLUME  TWELVE. 


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